


Calypso's Sea Lioness | Part II

by forhesolovedtheworld (WriteMessyStuff)



Series: Calypso's Sea Lioness [2]
Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Abuse, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Friendship, Graphic Description, Mind Control, Necrophilia, One-Sided Attraction, Rape, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Violence, Swordfighting, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-09-28 21:17:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 32
Words: 76,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17190500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WriteMessyStuff/pseuds/forhesolovedtheworld
Summary: The sea lioness may hold great power, but on the high seas, there will always be those with more.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is rated M for Mature. It contains graphic and explicit scenes of, but not limited to the following: rape, necrophilia, sexual abuse, physical abuse, vomiting, gore, drowning, anxiety/panic attacks, PTSD, and suicide.
> 
> Please take caution while reading and take note of trigger warnings to prepare yourself for any potentially triggering content.

Geneva had been treading water for hours now. She was beyond tired, but she wouldn’t let herself drown. She resorted every once in awhile to floating on her back in order to try and rest, but it didn’t do a whole lot of good.

She had managed to pinpoint somewhat where she was in the ocean now that she was floating in it. She was at least twenty miles off from the closest land, and she couldn’t see a thing. It was pitch black. All she could hear were the waves.

Suddenly, she felt something, a shock wave in the water. She jumped and began alertly treading water to look about. She couldn’t see a thing. She kept searching, though, hoping for something to pop up in the darkness.

She felt a massive presence in the water and became deathly still. She didn’t like that. She’d never felt anything like that in her life. The presence quickly passed, casually as a gust of wind, but her lungs were still adamantly strained, as if she were pretending to be a dead body afloat on the surface in hopes of being overlooked by a creature lurking below. The presence was distant now, but it hadn’t entirely disappeared.

She felt close to nothing for a while, and so she began to float on her back again, worn out and exhausted. The sudden rush of adrenalin had not helped her present situation. She sat there for a moment, listening to the peculiar sounds echoing in the cavernous depths below her. One thing was for sure; she was definitely treading deep waters. She was certain the darkness went down for miles, an endless abyss of alien uncertainty, and a gaping jaw which swallowed up so many men before her. She shuddered.

Suddenly, a larger wave hit her and went over her head, submerging her for a moment. She swam back to the surface again and cleared her mouth and nose of saltwater, and then looked about in an erect position. The wave had hit her from behind; from a general northeast direction, which was not at all natural for this part of the ocean. Her eyes strained. That wave had been large, and its trajectory had been odd. The waves in this part of the Atlantic generally traveled westward.

Approaching through the darkness, carried by another unusual wave, she could just barely see a chunk of wood floating in front of her, although she could mainly see it because she could sense it. It was substantial enough in size that she could partially mount it and take a rest from treading for a spell.

Then, she noticed a faint light not too far off among the waves. She couldn’t see it enough to tell what was producing the light, but there was a flickering bit of gold showing over the waves. She had no idea what it was. It could have been anything. But she was swimming in the middle of the Atlantic, right over a trench for all she knew. Approaching an unknown, glowing force in the middle of the ocean could not possibly bring about any worse a fate for her than if she chose remain cautious and secluded in the endless blackness. The latter, at the sight of probable safety, seemed quite foolish.

She expended most of her remaining energy simply swimming toward the light. The heaviness of the shard of wood had not provided any real efficiency, except for that it gave her a means by which to rest for a few moments before continuing. Finally, she reached a point where she close enough to the source that she could peer over the waves and catch a glance at it, and so, she paused in the water, climbed clumsily onto the hardly floating chunk of debris, and she peered over the white caps.

Of course, a shard of hull would be ideal for floating upon, but only if it were larger. But it was quite apparent to Geneva that she had probably secured the only shard of debris that was even worth trying to commandeer. The rest of its mother ship was littered about carelessly in a black stew of water with a radius of about twenty-five meters and growing, and at its epicenter sat the inflamed remains of about half of its quarterdeck.

Geneva had never laid eyes upon anything like this. Over half the ship was completely gone without a trace. At first glance, with bits of burning wood strewn about, it would have seemed probable that the powder magazine had ignited, but that failed to account for the lack of debris. Judging from what was left of the quarterdeck, the ship had been substantial in size, and if its powder magazine had blown, there would have been other large chunks of the ship floating around. The radius of debris was so small that there was no chance the ship had exploded and sunk all within such a short time period. Geneva didn’t like the look of it. It didn’t make a whole lot of sense.

She didn’t have too much room to be picky, though. She looked down at the water, as if she were making sure nothing was waiting for her below the surface, and then, after she’d sufficiently caught her breath, she jumped in and braved the rest of the distance to the quarterdeck, leaving behind the chunk of hull. What she hadn’t been able to see from the distance came into full detail as she neared, and she realized that some of the scraps of sail floating about haphazardly in the water were not at all sails, but bodies.

The quarterdeck was nothing more than a rich man’s raft. The portside rails were ablaze but beginning to hiss, charred and sputtering due to the saltwater mist that perpetually sprayed them and pissed away the flames. Geneva pulled herself up onto the deck and stood.

Oil had been dumped across the rails and the floor, but the fire hadn’t reached the splotches of flammable liquid yet. In all honesty, it seemed the ship never stood a chance. Whatever it was that happened, the crew had meant to set the ship on fire. It hadn’t been a mutiny. Setting your own ship on fire in the middle of the ocean, in the middle of the night, was suicide. If anything, desperate measures were executed when desperate times called for such. This hadn’t been an accident either. These men had been trying to protect themselves.

There was crumpled, bloody body in the corner of the deck, and Geneva stooped over in front of it and took the hat from his head. It was a wide-brimmed hat, and an ugly one at that. It was dirty beyond belief, but it would serve well enough. She wrung out her hair and stuffed it underneath the cap. Hats like these were useful in concealing her gender. The wider the brim, the less her face could be seen, and she had good reason to keep from being seen. Something wasn’t right, and she didn’t like a bit of what she saw. This ship had been attacked. By who, or what, she didn’t know. But she wasn’t about to walk into a situation, possibly a situation regarding this “associate” of Jack’s called Davy Jones, without taking the utmost precautions.

Geneva knew who _the_ Davy Jones was. She was quite certain there wasn’t a pirate alive who didn’t know of Davy Jones. He was the subject of nearly every folktale regarding death at sea. She'd never seen him, though (not that she ever _should’ve_ been looking for him in the flesh either). Jones, the _Flying Dutchman_ ; it was all a legend, but still a legend which sailors took completely seriously. If you ever did see Jones, you were as good as dead, and wouldn’t live to tell the tale, and so, nobody ever went around looking for him. It was just believed that he existed behind the next wave, and he’d call the Leviathan upon you if you cursed him in any way, and one way or another, you’d always end up in his Locker without escape. If Bootstrap Bill had died upon the lifting of the Curse of Cortez, one could only assume that he was in Jones’ Locker now, dead and gone, mysteriously disappearing from this world and surfacing in the next.

That was when she heard something. A creak. She turned about, wondering if maybe there _were_ survivors amidst the wreckage. She hadn’t noticed anyone, but there was always a dimwit’s chance for anything. But there was nobody. She would have brushed it off, but she could have sworn she sensed someone. The wind picked up a little bit, and the waves became unusually strong for a moment, and then, they suddenly died down again, as if nothing had ever happened. Geneva was on edge. Something wasn't right. Her hands brushed against the hilts of her swords, ready to pull them out at a moment's notice. It was dead silent now.

She heard the creak of a board behind her and she whipped her cutlass out of its sheath, spinning around to face the person behind her. Instead, she was met with a monstrous face that was anything but human.

She recoiled. She glanced up and down wildly at the creature standing before her, trying to convince herself that her eyes were tricking her, that the light was bad, maybe even that she had gone mad. All she could see were barnacles, coral, and seaweed. She let out a small cry—of fear or feigned courage, she didn’t know—and charged the thing, shoving it away from her with her sword, and it grunted, just as a human would. She froze, her insides going cold. _Was that a man?!_

She heard more noises coming from behind her, and she whirled around, seeing more of them, the stench of fish and sweat overpowering. They were everywhere, all at once, and she hadn’t even received any warning, and she pulled out her rapier and began swinging wildly, and she chopped off an appendage, maybe an arm, and a horrible cry of pain erupted at her side, and she jumped away from it, slicing behind her, blood all over the deck before her, the smell of entrails, a twitching arm on the deck, covered in what looked to be vomit. The armless thing retched again as she looked up into where the bile poured out of its face, and Geneva let out a wretched scream as she felt herself being pulled backward, and she swung wildly at what was behind her, but she felt a blow to the back of her head, and suddenly, there was only pain and blackness.


	2. Chapter 2

Geneva felt her knees hit hard on wood, and she groaned deeply. She opened her eyes and tried to regain balance. Someone behind her was holding her up by her hair, sword blade at her neck. Her vision was blurry. She tried to focus her eyes more, and finally, she looked about.

Her hat was gone, and her clothes were soaked. She looked up. She was on the deck of a ghastly, greenish ship, laden with moss and slime. Those same men that she had seen before were here now, all around her, seemingly waiting. She glanced weakly to her right, and there were two men in bloody shambles, barely alive, being held in the same lowly position as she.

“Captain,” called a deep voice from in front of her. She slowly looked up, and there, towering far above her, was a gray-skinned man, much of his torso shelled by barnacles, and a hideous, misshapen skull. She could only think that it resembled the skull of a hammerhead shark. When he spoke, his lips peeled back and his teeth pricked outward, just as the bloodthirsty fish would just before the maul.

“Three still alive,” the monstrosity hissed, and Geneva heard the heavy approach of a limp. “And we found one to be a woman.” The limp. The captain. Geneva turned her eyes to their gold hue.

A creature, whom she could only imagine was the captain, stepped in front of the shark-faced man, and stared straight down at her with deep, slimy eyes. Barely recognizable as human, a glorious beard of grotesque tentacles tumbled from his pallid face. He wore the clothes of a once majestic captain, but his whole body was covered in fauna and flora, barnacles and moss. The edges of his clothes were tattered with age, and his entire left hand was a giant, red crab claw.

As he met her gaze, a look of recognition appeared in his eyes, and he gasped, his beard of tentacles writhing in disgust.

“You!” he growled, abhorrently appalled at her presence. "I will not have _you_ aboard my ship!"

Geneva released her eyes. She was shocked. Her power appeared to have no effect on him. She had no idea why, but she was clearly wasting her energy, which she couldn’t afford. She was weak as it was.

“You know me?” she inquired, eyeing him inquisitively. She had to be careful. Speaking freely was a privilege she had come to take for granted lately.

“You,” he snarled, his thick accent dominating the air. “Are the wicked creation of the goddess Calypso.”

Geneva raised an eyebrow and let her eyes smile. She'd never been addressed as a “wicked creation” before. She supposed only other people could bestow names upon her. She had been called much worse.

“I generally go by Geneva Dalma,” she replied. The captain did not share in her amusement.

“And am I safe to assume that you are Davy Jones?” she asked calmly, keeping her voice strictly British sounding. There were so many voices around her to choose from, but British was the most prevalent.

“You’ll not be safe to assume anything, you bloody wench,” snarled the man behind her, gripping her scalp even harder, and a fit of chuckles escaped the throats of the men. Geneva thought better of a snarky comment and bit her tongue.

“Shall we kill her then?” asked the shark-headed man. The way he spoke with the captain indicated higher standing, at least in Geneva’s experience.

“She’s immortal,” Jones grumbled in response, as if he would have gladly hoped otherwise. “Lock her in the brig. We'll get rid of her when we near a port.”

“And the rest?” the man behind Geneva asked with a snake-like voice.

“To the depths,” Jones snarled, walking away from the group. Geneva glanced over at the two remaining men next to her, only to see their throats slashed. She gaped in disgusted horror as their bodies were nonchalantly heaved over the edge of the ship, and she felt the urge to struggle. The blade at her neck was gone.

Just then, she was rudely lifted high above the ground, and she panicked. She was hoisted onto a rough, prickly, barnacle-covered shoulder, forearms pinned beneath her, and the barnacles cut into her skin.

“Put me down!” she shrieked, kicking and struggling to break free. “What are you doing?!” The man carrying her didn't respond at all, and she could only see down his shell-crusted back.

Finally, the man threw her down, and she landed awkwardly in a puddle of water that was about an inch deep. She looked up and realized she was in the brig, in a cell of her own, and the man with the hammerhead face was locking the gate behind her. She went to reach for her swords, but realized that they had been taken from her, and so she jumped up and thrust herself at him through the bars, golden eyes flashing the moment she caught his eye.

He didn't react in the way she expected, though. In one movement, he had grabbed her by the neck, and she tried to jump back before he could secure a grip, but his hand had already clamped down hard, and he yanked her towards the bars again, ramming her right into them before she had time to brace herself.

“If you think that trick’s goin’ ta’ work on me, you’re wrong,” he snarled at her, grinning as though her attempt was laughable. “It's useless when I know you’re about ta’ do it.”

Geneva could only stare up at him in breathless shock as he smashed her against the bars, as if he were trying to pull her right through. This had never happened to her before. She had always been able to hypnotize anybody she pleased, but now, it seemed that nobody on this ship was affected by her eyes at all.

Just then, he thrust his other slimy hand through the bars and down between her breasts. She squirmed out of panic and broke free from his hold, jumping backward from the bars. He had pulled out the Japanese dagger that she always hid in her breasts, and was inspecting it.

“And I doubt you'll be needin’ this anytime soon,” he sneered, looking back in her direction dismissively.

Geneva was thoroughly disgusted. She pulled her tunic back up over her chest and glared viciously at the man on the other side of the bars.

“Bloody pervert!” she hurled at him without thinking, and she lunged towards the bars in a furious counterattack, and he thrust his arm through the bars at her again, but this time she recoiled back fast enough to avoid him, and landed in the water.

“You watch yer tongue, you cabin whore,” he snapped back at her in warning, and she half expected him come into the cell and calmly wring her neck for his own enjoyment. “Or I'll cut it right outta’ yer bloomin’ mouth.”

With that, he left the brig, and Geneva just sat there in the puddle, violated and fuming. She hated these men, and she hated Jack Sparrow for doing this to her. From down in the brig, she couldn’t sense where she was on the ocean anymore. She stood and struggled with the door for some time, but it remained solid. So, she did the only thing she could do: she leaned up against the back wall of the cell and waited.


	3. Chapter 3

She slept in the brig all night, sitting in an inch of water. As a pirate, she had gotten used to being wet, but she never had to sleep in a puddle of water. Somehow, she found sleep, but it was anything but peaceful.

The next morning, she woke to the sound of noise overhead. There were orders being given above her on the main deck, and men were running around, their boots hitting hard on the wood planks. It sounded like utter chaos. She could barely see, but there were a couple of lanterns lit in the brig. There were also cracks in the wood in the ceiling, and daylight from above shone down some, but it didn’t offer much.

Her head hurt. She sat up straight and focused on her head, easing the pain. Then, she stood up and walked to her cell door. She looked about. There was nobody else down in the brig that she could see.

She looked down at the lock on the door and began to mess with it. There had to be a way out of there, and she was going to find it. She fiddled with it, trying to see if there was any way she could break it, but it didn’t appear to do any good. She took a step back and studied the door. The iron was rusted and overtaken by barnacles, but it didn’t appear to be weak at all. She huffed.

Then, she looked over at one of the lanterns on a nearby support column, and she got an idea. There were a few thin pieces of iron on them that she could probably break off to pick the lock with. So, she stretched her arm out through the bars and toward the lantern, but then sighed in disgust when she realized she couldn’t even reach it. She stretched her arm out further, trying desperately to just touch the lantern, but her arm would not stretch anymore.

Suddenly, she heard a door slam open, and she snapped her attention toward the stairs leading up to the deck. There was light pooling down from the top, which she couldn’t quite see, and then she heard heavy footsteps descending upon the brig. She quickly pulled her arm back inside the cell and stepped away from the bars, pretending as though she hadn’t just been doing anything suspicious.

A hunched man with a crusted, muscle-covered face came into the brig with a lantern. Geneva watched him from behind the bars, and he came up to her cell, chuckling lowly. Instead of handing it to her, he tossed a piece of hardtack into the pool of water in her cell, and then proceeded to turn and walk back up the stairs from whence he came. Geneva only stared at the measly piece of food, and then at the stairs, and watched as the light was cut off by the slam of the door.

She leaned down and picked up the piece of hardtack. She hated soggy hardtack. But this hardtack had been soggy long before the man had thrown it into the puddle. This entire ship was wet. There was nothing about it that appeared to be dry. Sea life grew everywhere, on everything.

Disgusted, Geneva threw the piece of hardtack across the brig. She would not eat that. She could eat good hardtack. She had actually come to like hardtack over the years. But she refused to eat soggy hardtack. When it got soggy, things started living in it: things like bugs. She didn’t like to eat bugs if she could help it.

With nothing to eat, Geneva went back to trying to reach the lantern. She tried for a good ten minutes, but it was just out of her reach no matter what she did. She sighed and slowly pulled her arm back into the cell. Then, she turned, and seeing nothing else to do, she sat down in the water again and stared at the wall.

* * *

 

After a few days of just sitting there doing absolutely nothing, Geneva was finally given something to do. In the morning, a slimy blob of a man came down to the brig and opened the door. The man who had tossed her the spoiled hardtack was there, too, and when she stepped out of her cell, he handed her a bucket of water and a crusty scrub brush.

“You’ll swab the gun deck,” he said to her, and she made no attempt to argue at the idea. She had nothing better to do, and it would be much more lively than sitting in the brig and counting the barnacles on the back wall. There were three-hundred forty-six of them.

She took the bucket and the brush, and the man led her up the stairs, through the door, and then off to the left. Both the starboard and port side of the gun deck were lined with cannons, all of them completely covered in barnacles.

“You’ll swab all of it,” the man said gruffly from behind her. “And when you’re done for the day, you’ll go back in the brig.” Geneva said nothing and set the bucket down. She dunked the brush in the water and began to scrub the floor, and the man left the gun deck, presumably going up to the main deck just a level above.

Geneva was used to swabbing. She was good at swabbing, actually. This wouldn’t be a problem. She began scrubbing, and got the floor entirely clean in about an hour. The only problem she ran into was those pesky barnacles. They were terribly difficult to scrub off. She really spent time working those off. That meant that the cannons would be even harder to clean.

She started on those, and it took her nearly two hours to finish only one of them. Her wrists were already tired. This would be a long day.

As she worked, crew members went between the gun deck and the main deck periodically. They were quite loud. Most of the time, they didn’t really bother her, but she definitely heard them snickering at her, even if they didn’t speak directly to her. After about seven straight hours of scrubbing at the cannons, she had gotten three completely cleaned. They seemed as though they hadn’t been cleaned in decades. Their barnacles had barnacles growing on them. Geneva sighed. She had seventeen more of these to do.

Just as she was starting on her fourth cannon, one of the crew members approached her. He took a look at the work that she had already done, and then he chucked.

“You best not be working too hard,” he said, his voice raspy. “Once the ship goes under again, the barnacles’ll grow back faster than you scrubbed ‘em off.”

Geneva looked at the man, appalled. “Goes under?” she asked. “What do you mean?”

The man turned from her and hobbled back up the steps to the main deck, laughing along with some other men at what she had just asked him. They were all so deformed. Some of them had deformities that made them limp like that. Others simply looked inhuman.

She scowled as they disappeared up onto the main deck. The barnacles would just grow back? If that was the case, then why was she even doing this?! Her task was completely and utterly pointless.

By the time she had gotten two more cannons done, it was already getting dark. Geneva heard a set of footsteps come down the stairs behind her. She continued scrubbing.

“Wench,” said a voice. She rolled her eyes and turned slowly to face the man who dared to call her that. There were two men standing there, both grinning. One of them was the man who had given her the hardtack.

“See, I told you so, Clanker,” said the other man. He was the one that had called her a wench.

“Never said you was wrong,” Clanker chuckled lowly, and then he turned toward Geneva. “You’re done for the day. Let’s go.”

Geneva put the brush back in the bucket and approached the two men. The other man had spikes sticking out of the side of his face, almost like a puffer fish. It was horridly disgusting. Geneva wanted to vomit at the sight of it, but she didn’t.

“Aye, she’s got a pretty face,” the man said from behind her as they continued down the stairs to the brig, and Clanker chuckled. Geneva glared straight ahead.

“Probably more underneath her than that, Koleniko,” Clanker joked, and Geneva felt a slimy hand touch her neck. She jumped forward and turned around to face whichever one of them had touched her, but Clanker shoved her forward.

“Keep movin’!” he ordered her, and Koleniko sniggered, causing Clanker to laugh. Geneva scowled and began to walk slightly faster, heading down the stairs first into the brig. She walked into her own cell and shut the door behind her before they could try anything more. The two men only laughed at her, like it was the funniest thing they’d ever seen in their lives.

Then, they finally left her there in the darkness. Geneva sat down in the water again and closed her eyes, but she couldn’t sleep. She already hated this ship. She wished to God she had her swords. She would have killed at least four people by now. Regrettably, she couldn’t.

* * *

 

The next few days went on like this. She would clean the cannons virtually all day, and then she’d have to go back to the brig. Much to her dismay, she ended up having to swab the floor multiple times as well, simply because seawater tended to spray up and get on the deck.

Finally, after about five days, she had finished it entirely. It was the middle of the day though, and when she finished, she wasn’t exactly sure what she was supposed to do. She could have chosen to wander the ship, but she hadn’t exactly been given the freedom to walk around and do as she pleased, and she doubted there was much to see, even if she did decide to do so.

She dropped the scrub brush in the bucket and stood from the floor. Clanker had gone up to the main deck, so perhaps if she just went up there, he could order her to do something of more value to the ship. She could swab pretty well, but she definitely did not enjoy this work, especially with all those barnacles to get rid of.

She picked up the water bucket and headed toward the stairs, starting up. Daylight was streaming down from above, and she could hear some noise coming from the main deck, but it didn’t sound like anything too important was happening. When she got up high enough, she peeked above floor level and looked around.

The main deck was large and green with sea growth, with a surrounding upper deck. The forecastle deck and quarterdeck were connected by a small catwalk that ran along the port and starboard rails. There were some men walking around on each level, going about their business. Nobody had seen her yet. She looked for the hunched, stiff form of Clanker.

She spotted him on the starboard side of the ship by the railing, tying a sail up. The man named Koleniko was over in his vicinity, too, but they weren’t speaking. She continued up the rest of the stairs to the catwalk and made her way over to Clanker, putting down the bucket of water.

Clanker heard the bucket and turned around. “What are you doin’ up here?” he demanded, and Koleniko looked over.

“I finished swabbing,” she stated. Koleniko laughed.

“No, you didn’t,” he said. “There’s no way you could’ve. Gun deck ain’t been swabbed for years.”

“I know,” she replied shortly. “It’s a pointless task if nobody ever does it anyway.”

The men were just tickled by her displeasure. “An’ what would you  _like_  to do?” Clanker asked her jokingly, as if she really had a say. Geneva huffed an annoyed sigh, motioning to the ship around her.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said sarcastically. “I could work the ship!”

The two men burst into a fit of gut-busting laughter. “You? A lass? Workin’ the  _Flyin’ Dutchman_?” Clanker roared. “That’s the best thing I heard in weeks!”

“Your precious little hands wouldn’t last a day, sweetheart!” Koleniko laughed, a perverted look in his eye. “If it’s hard work you’re lookin’ for, jus’ come an’ see me tonight!” The men let out a horde of guffaws, and Geneva realized she would get nowhere with them.

“You have got to be kidding me,” she mumbled under her breath. Finally, the men composed themselves some, and they got to talking about her. Normally, she didn’t mind hearing the legends about herself, but there was something about hearing it from these men that really made her hate it all of a sudden.

“I heard that magic eye o’ hers is mighty nice,” Koleniko said, casting her a glance. She just sat there now, waiting. She had lost all interest at this point. They were just wasting her time.

“But it’s too bad it don’t work on the likes o’ us,” he continued, ignoring the bored look on her face.

“You’re an idiot,” Clanker said to him, knocking the flirtatious look off his face for a moment. “Why would we want it to work?”

“I never said that!” Koleniko said defensively, trying to redeem himself. “I jus’ thought it’d be kinda nice, you know? I heard she uses the eye to make men do her biddin’. But sometimes she has to do some  _convincin_ ’, too.” Geneva rolled her eyes.

“You beef-head,” Clanker replied, not believing a word. “You didn’t hear nothin’.” Koleniko glared at him.

“Who’s you to say I didn’t?” Koleniko shot back.

“Well where’d you hear it then?” Clanker asked sarcastically. “Did the mermaids tell ya’?”

“An’ what are you pansies squabblin’ about?” said a deep, gruff voice, and the two men shut their mouths instantly. They all looked back to see the man with the hammer-head walking over to inspect the scene. He looked down at Geneva and turned to the two sailors. “What’s the wench doin’ up here?”

Clanker smiled evilly. “She gots nothin’ ta do,” Clanker told him, like it was the best punchline he’d ever delivered.

“Yes she has,” the hammerhead man replied seriously. “She’s to swab the gun deck.”

“I finished,” Geneva piped up, and the shark-faced man looked at her.

“Did ya’ now?” he snapped lowly, showing his teeth and getting real close to her. She didn’t flinch. “Well then do it again.” Koleniko sniggered at him.

“An’ when you finish that, you’ll swab ‘em again,” continued the hammerhead man, without tearing his gaze from her. He didn’t even smile, although apparently it was humorous to the other two.

“But Maccus,” said Clanker, with mock pity, barely able to hold back the smile. “What’s the poor wench ta’ do when she finishes that time?” The man named Maccus turned his head slowly toward Clanker, shaking his head at their stupidity. Then, he looked back at Geneva, and finally, a twisted, toothy grin spread across his face as well.

“Then she’ll swab it again,” he replied, and that sent Koleniko and Clanker sniggering up a storm, while Maccus looked down at Geneva like she was a bug that had been successfully squashed. He wasn’t laughing though. There was only a look of superiority in his eyes, and it made Geneva’s teeth grind.

She glared right back up at him, deciding to give him the triumph he thought he deserved. They thought they knew her, but they really knew so little—so little it was insulting. After a moment, she figured that was quite long enough for one to feel prideful, and she flashed a sarcastic smile at the hammer-head man, as if she could join in on the laughter. Then, she spat, right in his face.

Koleniko and Clanker suddenly stopped laughing, completely in shock of what she’d just done. Time seemed to freeze in disbelief. But Geneva didn’t have a shred of regret.

She hadn’t quite seen it coming, though. She’d forgotten that these men were not at all like the men she’d encountered on other ships. Before she could even prepare herself for a fight, the first mate had grabbed her by her scalp and yanked her off her feet, and suddenly, the water from the bucket was all over her, and she was being dragged by her scalp across the deck, hopelessly fighting his pull, the shouts calling to “wallop the bitch!”, and he threw her down the stairs ahead of him, her knees scraping against the stairs as she fell to the bottom and hit face first, groaning, and he kicked her in the stomach, making her heave a painful, choked-off cry, but he wasn’t done. He tossed the bucket aside like a worthless scrap and picked her up off the floor by her tunic collar, yanking her upward, and she could barely balance and barely breathe, but she could see only the ugly, pissed look on his horrible face.

“You  _will_  do what you’re told ta’ do aboard this ship,” he snarled fiercely. “You’re damn lucky I didn’t beat you through the floorboards, cause I’m feelin’ mighty merciful today. But so help you if I’m not, I’ll forget you’re a woman next time and I’ll make you  _wear your innards_! Now  _swab_!” He didn’t even wait for her to respond, and he shoved her back down to the hard floor, leaving the gun deck without a second glance.

Geneva just laid there for a few moments, trying to heal herself up as quickly as she could manage. The pain in her stomach was unbearable. It took a few seconds for the pain to finally cease, and she slowly pushed herself off the ground into a sitting position. She couldn’t even summon up the courage to glare in the direction of the stairs. Nobody had ever beaten her like that in her life. She had never let anybody beat her like that. But the first mate was huge. She’d never seen a more monstrous man in her life.

And certainly, there were two types of men aboard the  _Dutchman_ : there were those that simply laughed at her attitude, and those who didn’t take a word of it. She had already figured out who one of those short-tempered people was. Maccus didn’t take any kind of lip whatsoever. She glared at the thought as she picked up the scrub brush and began to scrub again. He was the sailor from before who’d reached down her shirt to take her dagger. He was so tall, he probably saw it just by looking down at her. She didn’t have a whole lot of breast to cover it, and her tunic was loose. It still disgusted her, though.

She shook the thought from her head and continued scrubbing. Then, she stopped and looked across the length of the room. Everything was as clean as it was going to get. There was nothing more she could do. She sighed and stood up, leaving the bucket and brush where they were on the floor. She’d risk it. If they wanted her to clean a floor that was already clean, they could make her do it with a paintbrush for all she cared. It would be just as productive.

She turned around and looked down the other way, toward the back of the ship. There were a few men down there, working on other things in the back compartments of the ship. She started over there, being careful to avoid being seen from the upper deck. She almost hesitated at the thought of another beating, but quickly pushed the thought aside.

She made it over to the back of the ship. The men were moving cargo up from the lower levels. She figured she could try and help with that. She didn’t see why she couldn’t. Better to  _actually_  be productive than not.

She headed down the steps into what appeared to be the orlop. The next level down was the hold, and men were carrying more cargo up from there. She pushed her way over to the stairs and went down into the dim lit hold, and picked up a chest of cargo that was pointed to. It was heavier than she anticipated, but she couldn’t back down now, so she heaved it up onto her shoulder and climbed back up the stairs behind another man.

She heaved up the second flight of stairs and to the gun deck again, and set the crate down next to ones that looked like it. She didn’t even know what it was. There was another man in the adjacent room, hunched over underneath a long black coat that seemed to almost drag on the floor behind him. She figured it wouldn’t hurt to ask what she was carrying.

“Sir,” she said to the man, trying to get his attention. He turned and looked at her. There was a bright orange starfish fused to the side of his face, his long hair dangling and curling about stringy strands of seaweed. He looked hauntingly familiar.

His eyes opened wide when he saw her. “You!” he exclaimed softly, his voice raspy. She recognized that voice, but she still couldn’t place it. She gave him a confused look.

“You’re Geneva Dalma!” the man said. “You’re Barbossa’s wench!” Suddenly, Geneva realized who it was.

“Bootstrap Bill?” she said, and he looked down, shaking his head.

“So that’s what they call me, huh?” he said with a forced chuckle.

“Huh,” she scoffed at him. “Well everybody seems to like to call me a wench around here, so I guess the nicknames are a thing to get used to.” Bootstrap turned to her.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “That’s what the old crew called you.” He was talking about Barbossa’s crew.

“So what did they do to you?” he asked her, looking at her suddenly. “Did they throw you overboard?” She shook her head.

“No,” she said, and then she stopped. “Well, Barbossa didn’t. He’s dead. Jack’s the idiot who threw me overboard.”

“Captain Barbossa is dead?” said Bootstrap, dumbfounded. Geneva nodded.

“We finally broke the curse, and Jack killed him,” she replied, and she turned to follow him out the door and back down to the hold.

“That curse shoulda never been broken,” Bootstrap muttered. “It served you all right.”

“The gold wasn’t my idea,” Geneva shot back.

“Well, whose idea was it to throw me overboard?”

“Not mine either.”

“Oh. Well, I’m sorry about that.”

“Hmph. That’s fine. I gotten used to carrying the brunt of everything.”

“How did you get down here, though?” he asked, picking up a powder keg.

“Who do you think?” she replied, picking one up for herself. “Jack Sparrow. He marooned me in the middle of the bloody ocean.”

“Probably serves you right for maroonin’ him,” Bootstrap offered. Geneva scowled.

“I never really liked him anyway,” she muttered. “I agreed to be part of his crew after the whole thing. I betrayed Barbossa. Shouldn’t that be enough for him to run with?”

“Aye, but Jack’s the kind of man that’ll always get his honor back,” Bootstrap said, continuing up the stairs. Geneva said nothing and focused on not dropping the cargo she was carrying.

“It wasn’t a very right thing to maroon Jack,” he went on, and then he thought for a moment. “But there ain’t a man alive who deserves servitude aboard the  _Dutchman_. Not a man alive.”

Geneva put down the keg of powder by his in the storeroom, and he turned to her.

“Was this what they ordered you to do?” he asked her, and she shook her head.

“I already swabbed the gun deck like I was supposed to,” she said. “Those cannons are cleaner than they’ve been in decades.”

“What are you talkin’ about?” he asked confusedly. “Why’d they make you swab the cannons? Nobody ever swabs the cannons.”

“So I was told,” Geneva muttered. Bootstrap looked down, thinking.

“Well, if they told you to do that, you’d better do it,” he said, and she gave him a look.

“There’s nothin’ left on it to do,” she said, and he shook his head.

“That may be, but you’ll do it anyway, or you’ll get a beating,” he warned. “Save yourself the trouble and go swab like you’re supposed to.”

Geneva sighed and turned from him, walking down to the other end of the gun deck. She looked down at the bucket. There was no water left in it. She didn’t feel like going up to ask for more water. Luckily, it was getting dark out. She grabbed the bucket and placed it off to the side of the room with the brush, and waited for Clanker to come down and take her to the brig. She thought about going down there herself, but if she did, he’d probably assume that she went down there early instead of working, so she just sat there and pretended to be working.

Finally, she heard the thumping of heavy footsteps coming down the stairs behind her, and she turned to face Clanker, but it wasn’t Clanker. Instead, the first mate stood there, looking right at her, a glare on his face.

“Come on, you gorgon,” he barked at her, and she snarled at him with her eyes, which didn’t do a whole lot of good, but it made her feel better. She started walking in the direction of the brig, and he followed, taking no attitude at all. She just decided to not even speak. It was better that way.

She got to the brig and she walked in the cell by herself, no fuss. He shut the door after her, and then he left without a word. She was glad of it. She sat down in the cell and stared blankly at the wall until she fell asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

“Get your arse up.”

Geneva opened her eyes, and saw the first mate standing by the door of her cell, waiting for her.

“I don’t have time for you to just sit there and consider it,” he growled at her. “Get up!” She refrained from rolling her eyes, and stood up from the puddle she had slept in all night. He directed her

up the stairs, and then up again to the main deck.

“You’re swabbin’ the main deck,” the first mate said to her, gruffly handing her a mop and a bucket of water. Geneva took them, and was about to go about her business, but the man stopped her.

“When your superior gives you an order, you respond to him,” he said expectantly. Geneva did her best not to glare at him to his face.

“Aye, sir,” she said, and then she turned around to commence mopping. He left her alone then, but he was still nearby. He was watching everything she did, and she hated it. She knew how to swab, and she knew how to act to people who were of higher rank than her. She just didn’t think he deserved to be of higher rank than she was. He was a real stick in the mud.

She mopped about halfway down the starboard side, and she saw a sailor who was securing a line. She watched him as she mopped. He was knotting the rope wrong, but he seemed to have no idea.

“You’re doin’ that wrong,” she said quietly, boredly. “It’s over, through, then under.”

“Who gave you permission to speak, swab?” the first mate said gruffly, suddenly appearing before the man even had a chance to look in Geneva’s direction. She gave the first mate a dumbfounded look.

“I was jus’ bein’ helpful,” she stated plainly. “If you tie your knots wrong, you—!”

“ _Who gave you permission to speak?_ ” he repeated slowly, his tone dangerously low. Geneva stopped. “You will answer my question, and only my question. You will say nothing else.”

Geneva looked at him, desperately wrestling with the urge to speak her mind. If she did, he’d beat her again. She could bet on that. She didn’t want to be beaten, but she didn’t want to listen to him. She didn’t want to stoop so low. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of being her superior. He didn’t deserve it.

She needed to say _something_. She had to. He’d surely wallop her if she didn’t bite the bullet and bend. She just didn’t want to be broken. She hated him. She was not a lowly swab. She was a sea lioness. All men knelt in her presence. She never knelt for a man. She’d sooner spit in his face again than bow to him. She’d make him swab the deck thirty times, and then make him swab it again.

He was staring right back at her, just as intensely as she was at him. She wouldn’t back down. She wasn’t about to. She couldn’t say anything, though. She couldn’t think of anything proper to say to him. But she wasn’t about to step aside and let him have the victory. The only problem was that he wasn’t about to let her get around him. She could see it. It was a brutal tug of war.

“I could sit here all day,” the first mate said to her in an easy tone. “But I won’t, because you _will_ answer me.”

Geneva’s intense eyes never left his for a moment. He only had one eye remaining on his face, while the other one was in the eye socket on the hammerhead jutting out from his skull. He was terribly ugly. He even had teeth just like a shark. Nothing about him was at all pleasing to the eye. He was utterly revolting.

She wouldn’t let her pride fall. He believed that she would answer the way he wanted her to. Well, she had news for him. She wasn’t about to. She’d find a way around him somehow.

“My God. She’s not about to back down, is she?” came Clanker’s voice muttered from behind the first mate, amongst some other whispers that she’d just now noticed. Geneva ignored him, all of her focus intent on finding a loophole. She wouldn’t let the first mate win. Absolutely not. She couldn’t. She was a sea lioness. He’d never win against the likes of her.

Finally, she found her answer. The shark-headed man saw her eyes light up and gave her an inquiring look.

“I gave myself permission to speak. That’s all that’s necessary,” she said simply, not batting an eye.

She heard Clanker and a few other sailors let out a laugh at her answer. She stuck to it, watching the first mate’s face. His expression didn’t change.

“You gave yourself permission,” he repeated, just to amplify her answer. More laughter. Geneva wasn’t backing down.

“Women don’t give themselves permission,” the first mate went on, his look bearing down on her. The gruffness in his voice did not match the amused chuckles behind him whatsoever. “They don’t possess the capability to do so. Neither do swabs. They do exactly as they’re told, and they do not stray from that.” Geneva’s eyes were narrowing quickly. She didn’t need a lecture on her uselessness, especially not from an arrogant superior. But he must have seen the look in her eye. His voice suddenly got real low, so that only she could hear him.

“You’re not to speak unless spoken to, and you’re to do exactly as you’re ordered without any interference. Do not make me say it again, or I’ll have you flogged within an inch of your measly life. Is that understood?”

Geneva bit her tongue, hesitating. “Aye, sir,” she finally spat out. He hadn’t won. She hadn’t won either, but she hadn’t lost. She was about to turn back to continue mopping, but he stopped her.

“Answer my question properly,” he ordered her. Now, she was mad. She was not _given_ permission to do anything. She was her own being. She was a sea lioness, much higher than this scumbag who dared to order her around. If she had her swords, she’d teach him a thing or two about who was in control.

“You’ll not work until you answer,” he continued. “And if you don’t finish swabbing today, you’ll sleep in the crew’s quarters naked.” The worst part of it was, he wasn’t messing around. She really hated him. She couldn’t risk testing him though. He had forced her into a corner. She had to say it.

“Nobody,” she muttered, glaring at him.

“I can’t hear you!” he yelled suddenly. “Speak so I can hear you! Nobody what?!” She knew very well he could hear her. He was trying to break her. And unfortunately, he was succeeding.

“Nobody gave me permission to speak!” she snarled loudly.  He nodded in response, implying that her answer was satisfactory.

“Swab,” he ordered her gruffly.  She turned her back on him and grumbled to herself, continuing to mop. She hated him. He hadn’t won. He had, but she wouldn’t let him think that, and she wouldn’t let herself believe it. She would not be broken so easily.

She finished swabbing the starboard side and then shifted over to the port side. She finished that with no further altercations with the first mate, and then, when she was done, she stopped and turned to him to wait for his next order for her.  He said nothing, and walked away from her.

She sat there. What was she supposed to do? She had no clue. Certainly he’d love to tell her what to do next, but he was off doing something else. He must have left her there on purpose, just to see what she’d do. She wasn’t about to give him a chance to chastise her, though. She wouldn’t give him anything.

“Now, she’s learnin’,” muttered a sailor nearby. She didn’t look at them.

“Took her long enough,” replied another, not bothering to keep in mind that she was only a few feet away. They were well aware that she could hear them.

“Maccus don’t back down for nobody, though,” said a third. “He can break any man.”

Geneva pretended not to hear. She was thoroughly disgusted at their conversation, though. The first mate had not done anything that had broken her. She just complied because she wanted to.

Finally, the first mate came back and ordered her to swab the deck again.

“An’ you think you can do it by yourself this time?” he asked her stiffly. She glared inwardly.

“Aye, sir,” she replied shortly. She hated him.

He sent her off to swab the whole deck again, and when she had finished, she returned to her spot and waited for him to come back and give her orders. She wanted to mop his face off for making her swab twice. The deck didn’t need it. He was just doing it to prove a point.

Finally, he came back over to her and had her put the mop and bucket away. Then, without another word, he led her down into the brig. It wasn’t even dark out yet.

She was about to object, but she caught herself.  How the heck was she supposed to ask anything around here? She kept walking behind the first mate as he continued down the stairs toward the cells.

She stopped and waited for him to open the cell. He was huge. He would have had to duck to fit through the cell door. Granted, the door wasn’t that tall to begin with, but he was still monstrous.

He never presented her with a chance to speak. She wanted to ask why she had come down to the brig so early. She didn’t want to give him anything to run with. But she really wanted to know.

“Sir,” she said, catching his attention before he shut the door. He just looked down at her with the same unpleasant expression he always seemed to have.

“What?” he said with a disgruntled tone.

“Is there nothing more for me to do?”

“No.”

“Will I be getting food then?”

“Not if you keep pissing about.”

“I’m—!”

He glared at her threateningly, and she caught herself before she objected any further.

“Yes, sir.”

The first mate said nothing and locked her door, and then left. He really was controlling. He had forced her into a box. And she really hated it. But she would get around it somehow. If she was going to be here until Jones dropped her off at a port, she was going to use this time to teach these men a thing or two about who they were dealing with. She was going to establish who was really the boss aboard this ship, and for starters, it definitely wasn’t the first mate.


	5. Chapter 5

Geneva’s days went on like that for a while. She didn’t do a whole lot other than swabbing, and she hated it. She was fully capable of helping aboard a ship. She knew how everything worked, and yet, she wasn’t allowed to work the ship because she was a woman.

Unfortunately, Geneva had not seen the last of the first mate either. It seemed that he had put himself in charge of her, seeing that his subordinates hadn’t done a well enough job controlling her behavior. Geneva was not exactly thrilled with this.

The one thing in life that she had always despised was the feeling of being chained down or restrained. Whenever the first mate was in her midst, she felt like she was walking on eggshells, trying to make sure she didn’t do something that would cause another beating. It seemed like he was the only one who had a problem with her, and he always seemed to have a problem with her. She never seemed to do anything right, and he made sure she knew it.

The worst part of it all, though, was the fact that there was nothing Geneva could do to help herself. Her hypnosis was useless on these men. They were aware of her ability before she even came aboard the ship, and they were entirely immune to it. She didn’t understand why that would have made any difference.

Tia Dalma had warned her not to speak of her powers with anyone, which she normally didn’t.  Geneva had never known why Tia Dalma had said that, but now, it was more clear. It was just a guess, but perhaps if a subject was aware of her hypnosis technique, they could block out her attempts. It didn’t seem very fair to her, but that was the only explanation she had. And so, she was reduced to nothing more than an immortal human, sitting aboard a ship full of cursed men who did everything in their power to make her life miserable.

She finally became so fed up with her chores that she decided she’d have to complain. It didn’t make sense for a ship to not make use of all their capable hands, and she was very capable. These people were just being unreasonable. And she was going to kill someone with the mop if she had to keep doing this all day.

At the moment, Geneva was swabbing the main deck for the second time that day. She had gotten quite fast at it. The sun wasn’t even in the middle of the sky yet. The first mate was on the opposite side of the ship from her, on the starboard side. He was the only person Geneva had permission to even dare to speak to.

“Sir,” she called shortly.  She really wasn’t in the greatest of moods. He didn’t hear her and Geneva’s shoulders slumped.

“Sir!” she called again across the boat, a little louder. He still didn’t turn from his work. Geneva rolled her eyes dramatically. What was she supposed to do, call him by name? She couldn’t even remember his name.

“What do you want?” said the man named Koleniko, walking up to her. She froze. She didn’t really like him too much. The way he looked at her made her uncomfortable.

Geneva hesitated. “Him,” she said finally, pointing across the ship at the first mate. Koleniko looked over, and then back at Geneva.

“He’s busy right now,” Koleniko said, looking at her crookedly. “I’m your superior, so what do you want?”  Geneva just stared at him. She was not about to say a word to him. He really bothered her.

She shook her head. “Nothing,” she replied simply, turning her back on him to continue swabbing. Koleniko didn’t seem to like that answer. He didn’t leave.

“C’mon,” he urged, and she felt his hand slip slyly underneath her breast from behind. She jumped away from him, a small yelp escaping her lips. She turned around, giving him a disgusted look, but he only found it humorous.

“Koleniko,” came a voice from the quarterdeck. “Come set these charts.” The navigator offered Geneva a leering smile before turning and heading back towards the stairs to the quarterdeck. Geneva couldn’t believe it.

Suddenly, she felt hot eyes on her, and she turned to see the first mate giving her a death glare from across the ship. Now she really couldn’t believe it. None of that was her fault!

“What?” she said, and the first mate begrudgingly crossed the ship, a look of pure annoyance across his face.

“Why aren’t you swabbin’?” he demanded, glaring horribly at her.  She gave him an appalled look.

“He touched me!” she said, absolutely flabbergasted, pointing up at the quarterdeck where Koleniko was. The first mate didn’t even look in that direction.

“And?” he asked, and Geneva stared at him, dumbfounded. She couldn’t even speak, she was so appalled at him. She just sat there with her mouth open.

“Do your job!” the first mate barked at her, seeing that she had nothing to say. Geneva snapped.

“He wasn’t doing his job!” she countered, pointing a crazed finger at the quarterdeck.

“It don’t matter!” the first mate snapped at her, looming over her. “You’ll do your job!”

Geneva huffed and tore her gaze away from him, glaring.  “Why is this even my job?” she grumbled.

“Because I said it is,” the first mate growled at her.

“That doesn’t make any sense!” Geneva snapped at him, looking up at him again, determination in her eyes. She wasn’t going to back down.

“Well that’s not for you to decide!” the first mate snapped back.

“I am perfectly capable of working a ship, so why won’t you let me?!”

“Because I told you to swab!”

“Well, you’re just stupid then!”

The first mate rose his hand and was about to hit her across the face, when a tentacled hand caught him by the arm.

“Now, now,” came the voice of Davy Jones.  “If the little whelp wants to contribute, who are we to bar her from it, Maccus?”

The first mate growled a little bit, and then he lowered his arm, stepping aside for the captain.  Jones looked down at Geneva. She was just happy that she’d finally gotten to tell the first mate that he was stupid.

“Come now,” Jones beckoned her. “There’s work to be done!” Geneva followed him quickly to where he stood on the starboard side of the ship, looking out to sea.

“What exactly are you capable of aboard a ship?” Jones asked her thoughtfully. She didn’t think anything of it.

“Anything,” she said. Jones looked at her.

“Anything?” he asked her, a look of interested surprise on his face.

“Yes,” she said, hesitantly. She didn’t really like the look in his eye. She wasn’t sure where he was going with this. “I’ve also got an acute awareness of the sea. If you need anyone located on the sea, I can find them.”

Jones nodded thoughtfully. “Impressive,” he commented. “But I’m afraid I’ll be asking you to do something... different.” He pulled out his telescope and looked out to sea for a moment. Geneva looked out too, seeing a ship in the distance. She wasn’t sure what he meant.

“Sir?” she inquired, but Jones turned to Maccus, who had come up behind him, presumably awaiting orders.

“Ready the capstan,” Jones said to him, and Maccus grinned, casting an evil glance at Geneva before turning to the rest of the crew.

“All hands to ready the capstan!” Maccus called out, the sharp-toothed grin not disappearing from his face.  Geneva felt nervous.

“Sir,” Geneva said to the captain, and Jones put away his telescope. “What’s happening?”

“You’re to ready the capstan,” Jones repeated, patiently, not looking at her. Geneva didn’t understand.

“What for?” she asked, and Jones turned to her.

“Why, to summon the Kraken, of course,” Jones replied, a bit of a smile appearing on his strange face.

Geneva gave him a confused look. What did the Kraken have to do with that ship in the distance?

“The _Flying Dutchman_ summons the Kraken in order to destroy offendin’ ships,” came Maccus’ voice, and Geneva looked at him. “I thought you woulda’ known that.” The grin on his face was triumphant, and she glared at him.

“It’s exactly as Maccus says,” Jones explained calmly, watching Geneva. She looked back up at the captain, and then at the ship in the murky distance.

“Why would we destroy it?” she asked. “I see no threat at all. It’s not even in our way.” Jones snapped his head in her direction upon hearing his orders being questioned by a measly fly. He looked over at Maccus, and then back at Geneva, who was now looking at Jones. He stepped towards her at a leisurely pace.

“Miss Dalma,” he said slowly, so that she could understand every word he said. “Your opinion does not matter here.”

Geneva looked at him confusedly.

“So, you will do exactly what I say, when I say so,” he continued, cocking his head off to one side.  “Understood?”

Geneva squinted thoughtfully.

“That’s a merchant ship,” she replied, not taking her eyes off Jones.

“Do ye refuse to carry out orders?” Jones asked just as thoughtfully, leaning forward towards her. Geneva paused. The ship was a bit quiet now.

“It’s not a custom of mine to kill those who do me no harm,” she responded, and Jones stood up straight again.

“Well!” said Jones, turning to address the rest of his crew with mock preposterousness in his voice. “D’you hear that, men? We be infringing on her right to kill whom she pleases!” The crew behind him let out a horde of guffaws, and Jones snapped back to look at Geneva, and then over at Maccus, who was grinning even more evilly than before.

“Well?” the captain said, expectantly, and Maccus stepped forward and grabbed Geneva by the arm, pulling her adamantly resistant form to the forecastle deck.

“Jimmy Legs!” snapped the captain from behind her, and Geneva struggled to pull free of Maccus’s iron grip around her arm. Another man who looked like a coral reef came up on her other side and grabbed her other arm, and both men pushed her into the front corner of the deck, holding her there. She struggled with all of her might, but nothing seemed to work at all. She was getting scared now. The men were laughing at her attempts, and she couldn’t break free.

“Let this be a reminder of what your choices can cost you aboard this ship,” Jones said gravely from behind her, and suddenly, someone ripped the back of her shirt open, and before she could protest, she felt something sharp dig deep into the flesh of her back, and she screamed.

It hit her again, and she knew it had to be a whip. She tried to hold in her scream of pain, but it came out nonetheless, and her panicked mind began trying to heal her wounds as quickly as possible.

“Stop!” came Maccus’s voice, and the whip didn’t come.  Then, she felt him lean down real close to her, so close she could feel his breath.

“You keep healing yourself, and I’ll start cuttin’ your fingers off instead,” he said lowly, and just by the way he said it, she knew he wasn’t kidding. She couldn’t heal a cut off finger. It was as good as gone.

“Keep going,” came Jones’ voice, and the whip struck her again, and she cried out in pain.  By the fourth whiplash, she felt her vision blur, and right when she heard the fifth one coming, she felt her legs give out. As soon as the men let go of her, she dropped to the floor like a sack of bones, barely conscious. She couldn’t even move.

She could hear people telling her to get up, and she felt someone try to make her stand up, but she hit the deck again. She couldn’t even think to heal herself. She couldn’t even see. She didn’t know if she was even conscious anymore, or if she was dreaming. Her back felt torn apart, though.

Someone picked her up again, rather perversely grasping her bare torso, and she felt something hard digging into her stomach, like a bony shoulder. She felt her body hit the floor again, and footsteps jogging away from her. There was distant yelling, and then she heard a piercing noise. Then, her hearing faded out as well.


	6. Chapter 6

Geneva opened her eyes, but just barely. She could hear the creaks of the boat, and some voices far off. She was looking at a grimy, green wall, but her vision was sideways. She couldn’t seem to make sense of it. She felt disoriented.

She shifted a little, and then she heard a weary voice. “You still have that wild spirit in you,” he said. Geneva didn’t pay a whole lot of attention as to who it was. She couldn’t see them. She looked at the wall confusedly. Why was it sideways?

“I knew you’d get whipped soon enough,” the voice continued, and Geneva thought about it some. Then she realized she was laying on her stomach. That was why everything was sideways.

“You know, you really should learn to keep your mouth shut if you want to save your skin,” said the voice, and Geneva squinted. The voice seemed to echo in her head a bit, like her hearing was fading in and out, but she could somewhat tell who it was. It sounded like Bootstrap. He always had a tired-sounding voice.

She didn’t say anything.  She could feel something on her back, but she couldn’t place exactly where it was or what it was. Every time she felt it, though, her whole back started to hurt. She hadn’t felt the pain when she first woke up, but now she was starting to feel it more and more. She really wasn’t sure if she was actually feeling pain, or if it was all just a dream. It felt like a dream. She couldn’t see that much, so she closed her eyes for a moment, just listening to the sounds of the ship. She liked those sounds.

Suddenly, she realized that she had no shirt on. She opened her eyes and jerked her whole body in a startled effort to get up, but her muscles didn’t quite respond, and she only twitched.

“Wait!” said Bootstrap’s voice, suddenly loud to her ears. She still couldn’t see him. “You’re alright. Calm down. It’s all okay.”

“What?” she said, and she heard her own voice. It echoed off the walls. She sounded strange.

“You’ve got to rest some still,” Bootstrap said. “You’re not fully healed.”

Healed. That’s what she had to do. But there was another thing.

“Where is my shirt?” she asked. It was a rather blunt question, now that she heard it.

“It was ripped down the back,” Bootstrap said, his voice getting a bit softer. She wasn’t sure if he lowered his voice or if her ears were playing tricks on her. “I’ve got you another shirt right here.” She couldn’t see, but she believed him.

“But you won’t wear that just yet,” he continued, and she felt a pain on her back again, a bit more sharp this time. She didn’t know what that was. “I’m still cleaning your lashes up.”

Then, she remembered.  The sharp pain hit her again, even harder, and she winced. She thought about the pain, and it started to go away.

“Oh, that’s right,” came Bootstrap’s voice again.  “You can heal yourself.”

“It’s tiring,” she murmured, already feeling exhausted again. Healing took more energy than she had available right now. She could barely see. She felt so weak.

She heard Bootstrap start to say something, but she didn’t hear it, and she fell asleep again.


	7. Chapter 7

Geneva woke up face down on the floor in a small room all by herself. She sat up groggily, and suddenly, she felt a sting shoot through her back, and she winced, falling back down onto the floor again. Her back hurt horribly.

She sat there and thought about the pain intensely, and eventually, her back healed up enough that she could move again. She sat up, and realized that she still had no shirt covering her. She looked to her side and saw a dirtied white tunic, and remembered that Bootstrap had given it to her.

She twisted around and looked at her back. It had been crudely bandaged, and some blood had seeped through from when her wounds were open. She took the bandages off since they served no purpose anymore, and she laid eyes upon horribly ugly scars. She stared at them in absolute shock. She felt no pain anymore, yet there was still evidence that she had been marred. She didn’t understand. Her healing abilities were supposed to heal her entirely, weren’t they? She was supposed to be a flawless being. That was the point of her powers.

Try as she might, the scars never went away. She finally gave up and slipped on the tunic that Bootstrap had given her. It was rather spacious on her—not that she minded a bit of looseness. But, this was too big. She’d have to mend it and make it smaller somehow. It was about to fall off it was so big. She was a rather small individual.

She couldn’t really do much about it at the moment, though, so all she could do was tuck the shirttail underneath her trousers and pull the collar strings tight. That would do. She stood up from the floor and brushed the grime off herself, and then she opened the door to the outside and headed up to the main deck.

When she reached the top of the stairs, she realized how dark it was. She continued up onto the deck and looked out over the ocean toward the west. There was a dark purple light at the very edge of the horizon, indicating that the sun had just finished setting. She took a step back and wondered how long she had been out for. It hadn’t seemed like too long. It couldn’t have been more than a day. It didn’t feel like they had even traveled a day’s distance on the water from what she could tell.

She turned from the railing and looked across the deck. Nobody was really around. There were a few drunk sleepers by the mast, and the man called Greenbeard was on watch by the wheel. He seemed to pay her no mind.

Over the course of her recovery, Geneva noted that she had not been moved to the brig for safekeeping like she had in the past. Perhaps she wasn’t required to sleep in the brig any longer since she had asked for crewman’s status. That was somewhat of a relief to not be locked in a cage all night, but she didn’t exactly want to be near the other crewmen. She would have to find somewhere else to sleep.

She went back down into the gun deck where she had come from, and back into the storage room she had woken up in. There wasn’t much in it of value, so she went over to the next room. There wasn’t much else in that room except for old scraps of the thick fabric used for the sails. She figured those could be of some use to her, so she fixed the scraps into a makeshift cot. As wet as it was, it was also quite hot in that room, so she took off some of her clothing so that she was only wearing her undergarments and tunic. It wasn’t comfortable, but it was better than sleeping in a puddle of sweat. She closed the door to the room to keep intruders somewhat at bay, and then, she bedded down for the remainder of the night.

* * *

 

The next morning, she awoke to a harsh voice. At first, she didn’t hear it completely, but she still stretched to wake herself up enough to hear whoever was talking to her.

“Get up already!” came a gruff male voice, startling her, and she opened her eyes and sat up. Standing above her was the man called Koleniko, the puffer fish spines on the side of his face throbbing with his respiration. It was not a view she had planned to wake up to.

He suddenly grabbed her by the ankles and began to drag her from her cot, and she let out a yelp.

“Let go of me!” she snapped at him, but he wasn’t listening. She tried to kick him, but her leg got caught by the weight of the heavy fabric scrap she had used as a blanket. Panic rose in her as he dragged her toward the open door, for she was not adequately dressed. Her legs were nearly bare. She tried to grab anything she could in order to resist his pull, but all she had was a slimy floor to dig her nails into. She was desperate. She couldn’t go out there with barely anything on—not in front of a whole horde of men.

She saw a dirty glass shard and grabbed it, slashing him on the leg with it. He let go out of shock, and she recoiled from him across the floor and stood, panting, one hand keeping a sail scrap plastered to her lower half, an angry glare in her eyes.

“I can walk perfectly well on my own!” she snarled at him, brandishing the glass shard threateningly. He bared his teeth at her in disgust, his face curdling with ugly vexation. His bloated right eye made her want to vomit. He let out an outraged snarl and tried toward her again, and she slapped him across the face with the glass shard as hard as she could.

It pierced his cheek and he howled in pain, but she had just the window of opportunity she needed. She shoved him out of room and he hit the other side of the hallway, and then she slammed the door shut after him. She turned to quickly put her trousers back on before more trouble came, and she began to hear voices outside her door. Right as she had finished dressing, the door burst open in one forceful blow, and a monstrous figure came in behind her, grabbing her by the neck and whipping her around.

“You’ll do as you’re told,” Maccus snarled at her, his foul breath hitting her face like smoke. She gasped for air, clawing at his arm, her eyes pleading for mercy. He was huge—far too big for her to beat back. His grip could have squeezed her head off completely.

He threw her down hard onto the floor, and she hit it, sputtering and coughing. “You will be out on deck for work before the sun rises every day,” he ordered her viciously. “And there will be no exceptions, or you’ll be whipped again!”

She tried to heal herself quickly, and then she shakily stood herself up again. “I can wake up on my own,” she muttered at him, putting a boot on. He hit her, and she fell to the floor again, a cry escaping her throat.

“You’ll not speak unless spoken to, you bitch!” he roared at her, and she struggled to get back up. “Get moving! Let’s go! You’ve wasted enough time!” She grabbed the other boot and hastily put it on, and he grabbed her gruffly by the shoulder, snapping her around to face him.

“The next time this happens, I’ll be breaking your fingers for it,” he snarled, and she took a shaky breath, unable to speak.

“Is that clear?!” he roared at her, and she flinched at his force.

“Aye, sir,” she whimpered, thoroughly shaken up. He shoved her outside the room and into the hallway, where Koleniko caught her and led her quickly out to the main deck where the rest of the crew was already at work.

As Koleniko shoved her out toward the rest of the crew, she heard Maccus’ voice continue.

“And I’d expect you to be able to handle her on your own,” he said in an upbraiding tone, presumably toward Koleniko.

“I was doin’ jus’ fine ‘til she pulled that piece of glass on me!” Koleniko protested bitterly, and then he went about his business as well. Geneva didn’t turn around to look at them. She was already tying some rigging.

She didn’t make a peep for the rest of the day. She was on her toes ever since the morning incident, and she made extra sure to follow orders diligently. She wanted to prove that she knew how to follow orders. That was the first step to her domination plan.

If she was ever going to topple the first mate, she needed to make sure there was nothing about her work ethic that he could attack. If her work was done well, she could have a believable excuse to bite back at him. But she had to get there first. She had to build up her reputation once more.

And so, she worked well all day. She had no problems, and behaved perfectly. She followed orders, executing them exactly and precisely. In some cases, she did them even better than some of the other crew members, but not nearly all of them. Some of these men were incredibly strong, and although Geneva was somewhat strong herself, she was not up to par with that kind of brawn.  They had been working ships for decades longer than she had.

There was only one thing that confused her about the whole deal. If she was considered a crew member, then why wasn’t she becoming like the crew? It wasn’t that she wanted to become cursed, but she was curious. When did that process of sea growth start, and why did it start?

She kept that question buried deep in her mind until the end of the day. Finally, the crew dispersed and headed off to eat, drink, and sleep. Before everyone had gotten too far, Geneva found Bootstrap Bill and caught his attention before he went down into the orlop with the rest of the crew. He’d know the answer to her question.

“Have you sworn an oath?” Bootstrap asked after she’d confronted him, and Geneva shook her head.

“No,” she replied, and Bootstrap nodded.

“That’s why,” he answered simply. Geneva thought for a moment.

“If I haven’t sworn an oath,” she said slowly in realization. “Then I’m not bound here like you are.”

“There’s no way you could escape,” Bootstrap murmured dangerously, trying to keep others from hearing him.

“Jones doesn’t even want me on this ship,” she countered, and Bootstrap shook his head gravely.

“If he didn’t want you here, he would have marooned you a long time ago,” Bootstrap said, and Geneva’s face became wrought with confusion.

“Then why does he bother to keep me?” she murmured, and Bootstrap shrugged.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. He turned from her, and headed down the stairs for the orlop where the rest of the crew slept. Geneva went to her store room at the back of the ship and locked herself inside. She was tired, a feeling that she wasn’t used to. She’d never worked so hard in her life. But she’d have to keep this up, and then some. Not only did she have to worry about her work ethic, but now, she had to bear in mind her status; she was not bound to the _Dutchman_ , which gave her a lot of elbow room.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter contains instances of attempted rape, physical battery and abuse, slight blood/gore, and vomiting. Reader discretion is advised.

The weeks passed slowly, and not at all without sweat. Geneva labored strenuously day in and day out on that blasted ship. It was truly a prison. There was nothing at all merry about the work. Her days were filled with darkness, dim lit hallways, creaking stenches of the lower decks, the crack of a whip as it hit another man’s flesh. The stakes flew high, higher than Geneva could have ever dreamed of seeing, but she was on the climb.

Repetition was her new way of life, and it was the key to becoming skilled in anything. She became a master at knots. She could swab faster than most of the men. She wasn’t as strong as many of them, but she had enough force to get the job finished properly in good time. She found herself sore at the end of every day, and she would heal herself before getting a few hours of sleep, only to wake up again the next day and push through the same hell. But repetition was the key. It was the only way she could make well for herself. If she could do what was asked of her flawlessly, she could climb up another rung.

Over the dreadful course, during the nights as she healed her sore muscles, she found moments to expand upon her plot. She’d gotten herself out of miserable situations such as these before, and if she were going to get anywhere, the one thing she desperately needed more than anything were her effects. Naturally, she felt helpless without her swords. They belonged to her—she had earned them diligently, so she had a right to them.

But she didn’t dare ask for them. She knew the answer to that question. If anyone wanted her to have them back, they would have given them to her, and it was quite clear that no one wanted her to have any sort of leverage. So, she just kept her eyes peeled for them.

She looked very off-handedly though. A glance in one room as she passed, a peek in another when she neared it. It was not at all efficient. She searched for only a few seconds before moving on. It was all she could afford in her situation. She wanted absolutely no reason to be whipped again, and she wanted to make sure she gave no leverage to anybody else, no reason for her to get in trouble. For all they knew, she was only doing her job, and that was exactly what she was doing. Her search was only a separate task; effective multitasking. It was not thorough, nor was it quick, but it was the only way she would ever find those things without getting another beating or losing the trust of the crew. She had many things to balance.

On one day, not at all different from the rest by any means, for it was almost to the point she had lost track of time aboard the  _Dutchman_ , Geneva was below the decks, lugging supplies from the hold up to the orlop and the gun deck for storage. Although she had gotten used to the mucky feel of the ship, she could never prepare herself for the stench of the hold. It was miserable. No matter how many times she went down there, she always wished she hadn’t. What was worse, she wasn’t sure if any of the men around her noticed the smell. They didn’t seem to be at all bothered by the horrible reek of decay. But perhaps, she thought, that was because some of them smelled like that all the time—decay.

But while the hold was revolting for seemingly no reason other than because it was the hold, the orlop had its own share of nauseating smells, for reasons which Geneva indubiously understood. She had lived on many ships throughout her lifetime, and it was only natural that each bore its own level of stench when it came to human waste. However, there was seemingly little mind given to the notion of sanitation on the  _Dutchman_. She accepted, quite easily, the idea that these men were not at all clean, as many seafaring men weren’t, but she could painfully guess from a more than safe distance that the putrid-smelling bucket at the end of the orlop hall was not emptied often. It was for this reason that Geneva didn’t venture down to the orlop unless she absolutely had to, and she never had to make use of the bucket at the end of the hall anyway. She could just as easily do her business in the confines of her own room, and with her _own_  bucket (which was always emptied immediately and cleaned heavily with seawater, being educated as she was in the latest sanitary practices of Europe).

And so, Geneva constantly held her breath against the overwhelming malodors of the lower decks. She was always overly glad to reach the upper decks, where the sea wind and waves always brought gusts of new air billowing through the gun deck and above, for there were water drainage holes all about the gun deck near the cannons. All it took was one whiff, and she was free, at least for a moment.

And so, as Geneva lugged a large keg of powder up from the hold and set it down upon the rest, she made her rounds peering into the nearby storage rooms to check for the glinting hilts of her prized Spanish rapier and deadly cutlass. Her Japanese dagger would be harder to find since it was smaller, but she assumed that anyone with a somewhat organized mind would store her things in the same room. But perhaps she was giving these men far too much credit. Of course they’d make things hard on her. That seemed like the more humorous route.

As she glanced into a storage room near the stairs back down to the orlop, she heard yelling from above. She normally didn’t let that kind of noise bother her, and she was about to turn and continue down the steps until she heard a piercing noise that she recognized.

She froze as the shockwave rattled the ship, and then the ocean below. She could feel it throughout the whole ocean below her. She had felt that shockwave before.

She rushed across the gun deck and up the stairs to the main deck to see what had happened. She reached the top, and crewmen were already dispersing from around the ship’s capstan. Geneva continued out onto the deck, leaning over a railing to look out to sea. There was a small ship on the horizon. She could see it, and she could feel it there, and then she could feel a darkness swarming toward it. A demonic leviathan. It made her insides run cold, but she did nothing.

She turned around, and there was Clanker, regarding her staggered expression with amusement, as usual. “We’ve summoned the Kraken on those poor souls,” he chucked, clearly tickled at the idea of their suffering. Those poor souls, indeed.

Geneva didn’t pay him much mind. She didn’t bother questioning the ship’s practices anymore. Doing that had earned her loathsome scars, and she didn’t want to add to them. She only did what she was told, and refrained from participating as much as she could. So far, she had managed to avoid summoning the Kraken, and she wanted to keep it that way.

She turned back toward the ship in the distance. She knew what came next. The  _Dutchman_ would surely pillage the remains. It was Jones’ practice, and likely the only task he still carried out after he’d deviated from his purpose as the captain of the  _Flying Dutchman_. He only continued the practice for his own enjoyment, and his version of raping a ship of its survivors had become atrociously warped, a hideously slanted mirror image the duty with which he was originally bestowed.

She turned from the railing. She didn’t want to take part in that task either: boarding the remains of a battered ship and rounding up hostages only to kill them. She’d seen enough the day she was captured. It was doubtful they’d leave anybody alive, even if they asked to join the crew. The lives of men were one giant joke that never seemed to grow old onboard. Geneva didn’t find it all that funny. To her, lives were lives, and even she had enough dignity to make thought-out choices rather than murdering at whim. It was Jones’ vile perversion of the  _Flying Dutchman_ ’s purpose, and it was despicable. It made Geneva look moral.

As she turned to head back down into the lower decks, she heard a series of commands coming from the quarterdeck. They were echoed about the main deck, and then they traveled down into the lower deck as well.

“Goin’ under!” came the calls, thundering from every shadowed corner, from the very grain of the hull. Geneva didn’t understand. She stopped and looked about, confused. The navigator was nearby and saw her face, responding to her expression with humored pompousness.

“The ship’s submergin’,” Koleniko informed her, and she looked at him, dumbfounded. What did that even mean? How could a ship submerge? It would sink!

Koleniko got near to her, chuckling deeply. She did not like him. He seemed to think he had the freedom to do whatever he liked around her.

“That means we’re going underwater,” he said, slowly, as if she were uneducated. Now, he was just insulting her intelligence. She knew what “submerging” meant. It just wasn’t a normal practice for ships.

“Alright?” she replied, partially disgusted, and partially confused still. She could smell his breath, like the smell of rats. She didn’t like him so close to her, but he was the only one offering any explanation to her at all. He smiled at her coyly, and his eyes traveled below her face for a moment, admiring all that he couldn’t quite see. Now she was really on her last nerve. She was glad her tunic wasn’t revealing whatsoever. As far as she was concerned, she had nothing worth showing.

“I suggest you hold your breath,” he murmured to her with an underlying snigger, and she began to feel uneasy. “Wouldn’t want nothin’ bad to come upon you.” Before she had a chance to question him further, he had walked away from her, following through with his own orders. She didn’t understand. Hold her breath? It seemed that she was the only one who failed to understand what was happening, and she didn’t like that.

She felt the ship wane forward, and her whole body went cold. She rushed forward to the railing again, and the ship was declining more, the angle becoming sharper. This was a dream. It was a nightmare. She couldn’t be conscious. _Ships didn’t do this_. She absolutely could not handle it. The angle only grew, and the slimy floor was slipping beneath her boots. The whole world was falling beneath her. This was madness. This wasn’t possible. Water was rushing up the forecastle deck, jaws open, frothing at the mouth, teeth bared.  _What was this?!_

The ocean came hurtling for her, and Geneva took the biggest breath her terrified lungs could muster, holding on tightly to the railing, and then, she was engulfed. It was freezing. It was wrong. It couldn’t be. It was like she had jumped into the ocean, but it was just the opposite: the ocean had jumped up to swallow her.

She opened her eyes, and looked about, completely numb, utterly confused. But she was quite alone in her shock.

The men were going about their business as normal, as if nothing had changed. They walked about the deck like they weren’t underwater at all. She couldn’t believe it. The _Dutchman_ , crew and all, was sailing underwater.

She still had a fierce grip on the railing, and she turned about, confused as anything. She couldn’t understand how all of this was happening. She could have sworn she was dreaming. But now, she had no clue. She knew she was awake. Perhaps she’d finally gone mad.

She saw Clanker and another man called Palifico laughing at her struggling form, and she was appalled. They could speak underwater. They could  _laugh_  underwater! She was completely mad. She was nearly certain.

She turned the other direction and pushed her shrouding hair out of the way, looking up to the quarterdeck. There was the captain, looking straight down at her. The first mate was up there, too, observing her. He said something to the captain, but Jones’ shook his head, not at all fazed. The first mate nodded, and then he went about his own business, seeming to lose interest. This was madness. She was insane. She knew.

Suddenly, her lungs felt pressed. She could feel her breath running short. She needed more air. But she couldn’t do anything. She was stuck below the surface. She couldn’t swim up. It was too far. She didn’t have enough air to spare. She tried to keep holding her breath. Her vision was getting foggy and dark. She couldn’t breathe in. That was what she was afraid of. Her body would naturally try to breathe in, and she’d take in an entire breath’s worth of seawater. She didn’t want that. Not at all.

But she was only prolonging the inevitable. Her vision was becoming darker. She was having trouble holding on to the rail now. She felt helpless. She couldn’t do anything. She couldn’t do anything. She couldn’t do anything. She needed air. But it wasn’t there. There was no air. Only water. Water all around. And darkness. Only nothing.

She couldn’t hold on any longer, and she felt the wooden rail slowly slip from her hands. She was floating for a moment, and then, she felt water rush in her lungs, slamming her insides, and she couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t see. She couldn’t cry out. It hurt.

* * *

 

The next thing she knew, Geneva felt a huge shove on her stomach, and she rolled over and coughed up the entire ocean. Every time she tried to catch her breath, more came out. She could feel water just sitting in her lungs, and she couldn’t see yet. All she could do was heave.

Someone picked her up some, and it disoriented her, but she could cough a bit better. The water just flew up her throat and out her mouth. She couldn’t breathe. It hurt every time she tried, but she really wanted to taste the air again. She could feel it on her skin, but that was all. Everything hurt.

Suddenly, she could take a breath, and it thundered deeply into her lungs, until it was stopped by more water. She hacked violently, but she could taste the air, and she opened her eyes. She was sitting on the deck, in a puddle of her own water. Someone hit her back forcefully to try and force it out of her, but it only made it worse. The coughing hurt. It only made her weaker.

She could hear voices behind her, some of which she recognized as she retched. They weren’t at all worried. She couldn’t bother too much with them, but she could hear them.

“Well I thought she was dead for sure!” exclaimed a voice that sounded like Clanker. A few snickers arose.

“That’d be an awful shame,” came Koleniko’s snake-like voice, followed by a snicker, and she coughed deeply and painfully. She couldn’t stop. It hurt so much.

She felt hands pick her up from the floor by her torso and sling her over the side of the boat so she could cough downward, and it helped some. There was some laughter behind her, and then she heard the quartermaster’s annoyed voice. Someone hit her gruffly on the back, but it didn’t help, and she winced as she hacked, unable to hold herself up. All she could see was the ocean below. She didn’t want to fall.

After a moment, she felt a gruff pair of hands grab her by the torso, and she was lifted up and over. Her stomach came down harshly on a rough shoulder, and it made her vomit, whatever was left in her, all down the back of her carrier’s legs. There was a disgusted groan from the man who was lugging her, echoed by the laughter of some crew members, and then Geneva felt herself moving away from the noise of the main deck. His shoulder really dug into her. It was hard to breathe, but at least she could breathe now.

Suddenly, she was thrown down onto the floor, and the shock of hitting the ground sent her into a bit of a coughing fit. Once she got relative control over her lungs, she looked up, and there was Maccus, standing over her, a look of frustration on his face.

“Hurry up and finish your retchin’ so you can get back to work,” he said gruffly, clearly miffed. She’d just thrown up down his back. He had a right to be pissed. That was his first and only right.

“I’m tryin’,” she retorted weakly, but her throat was so dry from coughing up saltwater that she went into another nauseating fit. Maccus grumbled audibly at this.

“For God’s sake,” he snapped at her with an irked tone. “Would you shut up?” She gave him a funny look, trying to control herself.

“There’s not much I can do,” she coughed, finally getting somewhat of a grip. “I swallowed the whole damn ocean!” But she’d been too bold with that breath, and after she’d said it, she’d gotten herself into another uncontrollable burst of coughs.

“Watch your bloody tongue,” the first mate snarled at her, and she winced as she hacked, trying to hold back the bile in her throat, but she couldn’t. She waited for him to flog her, trying to harden up in time to meet the blows, already battered enough as it was, trembling in the effort to hold back another retch. But, when she finally looked up again, he was gone.

It took her a good couple of hours to truly calm herself down. She’d basically drowned, but since she couldn’t die, she couldn’t drown. She only suffered the physical effects of drowning without actually losing her life to it. It didn’t seem all too great to her, but all she could do was recover.

Finally, she got herself calmed down enough to stop shaking. Then, she began to heal her lungs. They stopped hurting, and then she healed the pains in her gut, too. She sat there in meditation with her eyes closed, sprawled across the floor, and healed herself mentally. Drowning was an ordeal she never wanted to face again.

It took some time to mentally recuperate. She just sat there, listening to the creaks of the boat and the sound of the distant waves, voices nuancing up and down in volume and intensity, the wind blowing faintly.

Then, she sat up and took in a deep breath of air, and let it out. She got herself to yawn, and then, she was alright again. She opened her eyes and looked about the room.

She hadn’t noticed where she was earlier. She’d never been in this room before. There were ropes and empty boxes littered about messily, and some faded maps sitting upon a small, barnacle-crusted table. At its side, there was an empty, topless barrel with some thin wooden poles in it, and she saw the glint of a hilt sticking out of it.

She stood up quickly and walked over to the barrel, looking down inside it. Sure enough, there was her Spanish rapier. She picked it up, and attached to its sheath was her cutlass as well. So  _this_  was where her effects had been all along—sitting in a barrel. That was clever. She would have never guessed to look there. But conveniently, she didn’t have to guess at all. She had been placed there.

She took her swords and strapped them to their spots at her sides, and then she commenced searching for her Japanese dagger in the barrel as well. She didn’t have nearly as much luck, though. It wasn’t there. She looked about the whole room since she had the time. It was nowhere to be found. She scowled. They’d gotten her hopes up by putting her cutlass and rapier in the same room, and now they were just playing games with her by hiding her dagger somewhere else entirely.

She sighed and walked out of the room, and she realized she had been just off the main deck. The room was near the captain’s cabin, which was down at the other end of the hall. It was no wonder she hadn’t looked there for her swords.

She headed back out to the main deck, where it was becoming noticeably darker. The crew was dispersing for the night. She searched the crowd of men, for no one in particular, and then she spotted Maccus, who was removing a wooden lever from the capstan. She winced internally. She had let herself swear in front of him, and after all that work to make sure he had no reason to get her in trouble again. She growled at herself. But she couldn’t back down now. She had a real bone to pick with him. And now, she had swords to help her get answers.

She headed across the deck for him, and he saw her approaching as he pulled another board from the capstan. At first, he didn’t seem to care either way about her presence, but when he looked down and saw her swords, his eyes narrowed.

“Where’s my dagger?” she demanded, and he tossed the board aside into a pile along with the rest, turning to face her again. He suddenly grabbed her swords off her waist, before she even had a chance to brandish them herself, and she yelped at him, trying to grab them back, but he held them out of her reach easily.

“Give those back!” she ordered him, but it was a bit less convincing now that she had nothing to back herself up with. “Those are mine!” He glared at her in response.

“Now what makes you think that jus’ because you find something, that automatically makes it yours?” Maccus snapped at her. Geneva gave him a funny look and then proceeded to glare at him and fold her arms.

“I absolutely  _adore_  your logic on the subject,” she remarked sarcastically. “Amuse me and recall who exactly it was that saw fit to take my dagger for himself upon seeing it?”

Maccus’ facial expression didn’t change a bit, and he whacked her over the head with the hilts of her swords. She yelped and jumped out of range, rubbing her head with a sour look on her face.

“This ain’t got nothin’ to do with logic,” Maccus growled, ignoring her miffed look and coming to tower over her suddenly. “An’ I suggest you learn how to keep your mouth shut, or I’ll be obliged to rip your tongue out.” The threat made Geneva cower and scramble backward to a safe distance before he could make a swipe at her, which she knew for a fact that he would. Finally somewhat satisfied that she had been once again put in her place, he turned about and headed up to the quarterdeck to assume watch for the night, taking her swords with him for safekeeping.

Geneva still had the cowhearted nerve to foster a hiss in his general direction. She heard Clanker chuckle behind her, and she turned to glare.

“Now what would you need a sword for?” he laughed, and she saw that Koleniko was at his side too, just looking at her with a smirk. She ignored an uncomfortable feeling.

“Same reason you’d have a sword,” she replied bluntly. “To get what you like and kill people who step in the way.”

Clanker only found this amusing and laughed again, while Koleniko continued to watch her. She got the feeling again.

“An’ who would you be killin’, little lass?” Clanker mused, and Geneva sighed frustratedly. Everything she said to these idiots was a joke. She hated it.

As much as she wanted to kill the two of them at the moment, she refrained from saying it. “Jack Sparrow,” she muttered seriously. It was true.

Clanker’s laughter was cut off at the sound of Sparrow’s name. “Jack Sparrow?” he repeated, and the air shifted. Geneva knew that she couldn’t plan on killing Jack with a sword. That would be a direct kill, and she couldn’t do that. She’d imprinted on him.

“What do we know of Jack Sparrow?” Clanker asked Koleniko, and the navigator looked at Geneva thoughtfully.

“Did he break your heart, darling?” Koleniko mused, smiling widely at her, some murky look in his eye. She did not like that look  _or_  that pet name. She glared back at him.

“No,” she growled deeply. “I broke his.” She hoped that showed her disdain enough. She didn’t like how daring he’d been getting with her lately. Her response didn’t faze him a bit, though, and he snickered.

Clanker thought for a moment, quite seriously, and then he spoke.

“If me memory serves me well,” Clanker said slowly. “Me thinks Jack and the captain have an accord.” Geneva looked at him inquiringly.

“Of what nature?” she asked, and Clanker considered the question.

“If you want to know,” Koleniko interrupted lowly, grinning devilishly. “You’re gonna have to barter for it.” That was far too close for her liking. Geneva flashed her golden eyes at him in warning, even though she couldn’t actually do anything with them. It was the only thing she could do, the only real show of power she could manifest. But Koleniko only sniggered. Her eyes did nothing. If anything, they showed just how powerless she was. The flash of her wild eyes was nothing but a joke to the crew. But Geneva could tell that wasn’t where Koleniko’s thoughts ended. She knew an interested man when she saw one.

“Nonsense,” Clanker said, in response to Koleniko’s proposal. “This is common enough. Certainly there ain’t no harm in a lass knowin’ it.”

Geneva turned from Koleniko and gave her attention to Clanker again.

“Some time ago, Jack Sparrow was the captain of a ship called the  _Wicked Wench_ ,” Clanker began, and Geneva’s eyes lit up. She knew that name. She’d been aboard that ship.

“He’d done somethin’ to wrong a British nobleman on the rise, an’ now he was sinkin’ along with his burnin’ ship into the depths. He calls upon Davy Jones an’ makes a deal: Jones’ll raise him and his ship so he can captain it for thirteen years, an’ as a price, he has to serve aboard the  _Dutchman_  after his time is up.”

Geneva was in disbelief. “How long has it been since then?”

Clanker chuckled darkly. “Nigh thirteen years.” That was it.

Geneva turned sharply from the two men without another word and headed straight for Jones’ cabin. She had an idea. A perfect one. She could get the revenge she wanted, and perhaps more.

She knocked on the door, and Jones’ voice came after a moment’s pause. She let herself in on his command and then closed the door behind her.

His cabin was a long expanse of a room, dimly lit with bundles of candles and laden with bits of antiquated furniture. There was a large storage chest at one side of the room, and a large desk at the other. At the very end of the room, against the huge gallery window, there was a grand pipe organ, looming over the whole room in majesty. Jones certainly had a sense of decorum.

The captain was seated at his desk, amidst soggy papers and maps. She came up to the end of his desk and waited patiently, although her mind was racing, her ideas flowing like a river.

“What do you want?” Jones asked, not exactly begrudgingly, but it was clear he wasn’t in the mood for company.

“I know of your deal with Jack Sparrow,” she said, and Jones snapped his head up to look at her suspiciously. She stopped herself from saying anymore than she needed to, waiting to see what he would say.

“What is your purpose in pestering me with that?” he asked her carefully, his voice displaying a small hint of interest. It was all she needed to continue.

“It’s been almost thirteen years,” she said. “Soon, it will be time for Sparrow to pay the debt he’s incurred.”

Jones said nothing, and continued to look as though his interests were taken elsewhere, but Geneva could see through that kind of trick. She’d seen it too many times to be fooled.

“But you and I both know Jack,” she went on, cleverly taking the side of the captain. “He won’t come easily. He always looks for a way out if he can. It’ll take a cunning mind to trap him.”

The captain was pretending not to listen, but he heard every hint of suggestion in her voice. He saw the bait and considered it for a mere moment, but didn’t go for it. Geneva knew he was already aware of where she was going with this. She cut to the chase.

“I could be of help to you with that task,” she offered, slyly. “We’ve a common goal, and I do my job well. I wouldn’t hesitate in finding the bastard for you at all.”

Jones sat in thought, and Geneva took a step back to let the idea sink in. She didn’t expect him to give her an answer that moment. She was only planting a seed. She knew how deception worked, and she knew how negotiation worked. She was a master at it. It was one of her favorite things to do. She could always get her way, one way or another. It was her art.

“Your offer is generous, Miss Dalma,” Jones said finally. She almost expected him to say those exact words. Even without her eyes, she had an acute sense of prediction, especially when making deals. She was very aware.

“Certainly it must fit your agenda,” he went on, and Geneva hadn’t seen that comment coming, but it didn’t come as a blow to her plan. It was a true statement.

“That would be accurate,” she replied, her voice not wavering. “We’re in the same boat with regards to Sparrow. We’d both prefer him dead.”

The captain said nothing to that and stood from his desk. His eyes indicated that he wouldn’t be giving her a straight answer.

“If your services are needed, I will call upon you,” Jones said with complete awareness of the situation. He stood higher than she did, but he was definitely aware of her deceptiveness, this Geneva knew. She had to be very careful with him. He was just as deceptive as she was.

It would have been easy to believe that Geneva had not gotten anywhere with this, but it was quite the opposite. She was perfectly satisfied with their seemingly fruitless discussion, and was not at all averse when Jones dismissed her from his cabin. She recognized progress long before others even considered it, and this was the first milestone.

As she walked back out onto the open deck, she noted that it was getting dark. The western sky was lined with the last hints of lavender, closely tailed by the deep black which threatened the last remnants of the sun. The whole ocean was shrouded in darkness.

She turned to look across the ship, and there were a few men still up there, huddled around sparse lanterns. Maccus was up on the quarterdeck, on watch. Clanker was with a few others in the center of the main deck, drinking and chuckling lowly. Koleniko sat just outside the group, but was not taking part in their laughter. His eyes were locked on her. She wasn’t clueless. She’d never had a reason to feel afraid of anyone for a long time. But she still understood that feeling. It was a warning feeling. She was aware of the look in his eyes. She knew what it meant. It bore certain intent.

She turned from the rail and headed down to the gun deck. She looked over at the rudder end of the ship and thought better of it. She didn’t want to trap herself in her room. That was exactly what she’d be doing by going there. She wasn’t going to play games. She knew he’d follow her. He’d expect her to go there, and she definitely wouldn’t be safe there. She looked down the steps to the orlop. There was noise coming from down there: speaking, laughter, the rest of the crew. That was a better idea. If she was in a room full of people, he’d be less likely to try anything. That would work long enough for her to think of something else.

She continued down the stairs into the orlop, and headed straight for the lit section of the vast level, which was at the stern of the boat. She stepped into a rather large room littered with crates and barrels, light emanating from scattered candles and solitary lanterns on the walls. Men were all about the room, sitting on the unorganized boxes, drinking, gambling, and laughing.

She slowly made her way to the center of the room, trying to look as natural as possible. She was used to wearing those kinds of masks. She looked about casually, looking for a table to join., but her eyes narrowed. There was nobody that she really fancied talking to. She couldn’t just join a conversation. She never talked to these people on a normal basis.

Then, she eyed a corner and saw a familiar face, and she began to head toward it, trying to look as nonchalant as possible. Bootstrap was over there, all by himself, drinking some rum. She stopped beside him. He hadn’t noticed her yet.

“Bootstrap,” she said lowly, so that only he could hear her. He turned his head and looked up at her, worn and tired, visible bags beneath his eyes.

“What do you want?” he mumbled mindlessly, his raspy voice barely audible, it was so low. His expression mirrored that of a father being pestered for allowance. He’d shown her kindness before, but she knew he would never be the first to jump at the chance. He never was one to care too much for anybody. Rumor had it he’d left his own son behind to chase the sailor’s life. He only offered slivers of help to her because he knew her, and because nobody else would do anything for her anyway. But she figured she at least had a chance with him.

Geneva took a breath and refrained from looking behind her. Voices were going up and down in volume throughout the room. She was becoming nervous.

“That slimy git’s been followin’ me,” she muttered, using only her eyes to motion behind her. She could sense the navigator was in the room. She had heard him following her, and he held back far enough that she couldn’t make a move. She could always feel when she was being tailed, and now, she felt threatened, so her senses were completely amplified.

Bootstrap took a glance behind her nonchalantly, and then took a swig of rum.

“I think he’s goin’ to try somethin’,” Geneva continued, trying to get something out of the man. “What should I do?”

Bootstrap sat there for a moment, staring at the wall. A burdened look came across his face, and he looked at her almost sadly.

“Don’t let him catch you,” he offered, and Geneva stared at him. She had expected better than that. She had expected help from him.

Bootstrap saw the look in her eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said softly, so he wouldn’t be heard. “There’s nothing that I can do to help you. I would if I could. He’s the navigator, you see? I’m nothing but a pile of dirt to him. He’d have me flogged for interfering.”

God.  _Interfering._  That word. Geneva couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She couldn’t even speak. How could she have been so foolish?

“The best you can do is run,” Bootstrap said. “That’s all I can give you. Try to understand. These men haven’t seen a woman in years.”

Geneva narrowed her eyes at him, almost hurt. But of all things, she couldn’t believe herself. How she could have fooled herself into believing this coward would give her any bit of help. How she could have thought highly enough of him to believe he would provide any protection, or maybe just conversation long enough to outlast the navigator. But how wrong she was. She gave this man too much credit. She asked too much of him. This wasn’t some uncharted field of thought. It wasn’t arithmetic. It wasn’t a learned theory. It was a consensus of being. It was the foundation of benevolent coexistence. She couldn’t even afford to stay and talk to him. The navigator would be given every right and full opportunity to snag her from the table, mid-conversation, mid-sentence, mid-syllable, and Bill Turner, the damned deserter of a father, would live up to his name and cowardice and let it all happen, turn a self-preserving blind eye, all without one word of protest. He wouldn’t bother to stop the navigator, even if he cared a shred enough about her to watch it happen.

“I’m sorry,” Bootstrap said, turning back to face the wall again. “Do what you can. Try to keep out of his sight.”

Geneva said nothing to him and turned to exit the room. She continued into the darker hallway in hopes of being lost. She’d failed to check where the navigator was before she left. That probably would have been a good idea, but she simply wanted leave. She no longer cared enough to look. Why should she care if nobody else did?

The rest of the orlop was dark. The stairs up to the gun deck were near the rudder, and at the moment, she was at the stern. She continued on down the hallway, circling around the crew’s cabins back by the rudder. She could lose any followers that way. It smelled deeply of urine, and then something worse than dung. She didn’t bother to think of it. Her eyes had adjusted well enough to see the grime which clung to the walls, to the floor, to everything but her. Pools of God-knows-what. Perhaps water. Urine if she was lucky. Vomit if she wasn’t. She stepped over sludge. At the end, she passed the bucket. It was hell. A quiet, oozing hell, excrement lying around, or maybe it was bile, or bits of sea flesh. The noise from the lit room was far behind her now, completely nonexistent. All there was to hear was the deep echoing creaks of the ship against the depths, and her own heartbeat. She could feel it. It beat against her chest like the bars of a merciless prison, shaking her whole being.

The hallway looped around. There was the door leading out to the stairs upward, right at the end of the hall. And then, there was a noise, from right behind.

“Now what are you doin’ down here all by yourself?” Thick, low, contorted, so gravelly it could have shoveled shit. Her insides ran together. A hole bore in her chest, deep. Her breath picked up. She turned.

His figure stood a couple yards off in the darkness. Hunched over with a ball of spikes protruding from one shoulder, and from the head. She could almost feel them in her neck. His face was barely visible, crooked and twisted, bloated and throbbing as he breathed, low and heavy. She stood there, planted, firmly, a fear in the back of her chest. She did her best not to appear intimidated. The last thing she wanted was to appear afraid. She did not want to look weak. But she was shaking. Never had she found herself shaking.

“I could ask you the same thing,” she replied in a low voice, feigning more confidence than she had. She had to keep her voice steady. Her heart was racing. She felt the urge to feel the hilt of her sword at her side, like a sudden wall hitting her, like an instinct, just to feel it, just to be ready. But she brushed nothing but air and froze. She had nothing.

“I was hopin’ you could help me out,” he said, almost huskily. He was so nonchalant. But she had no doubt.

She said nothing. Not a word. Not a sound. She didn’t want to provoke him further. She was convinced that one noise would have done just that. It would have invited him, given him one lick of confidence, and taken hers completely. She would hold that close to herself. He was her size, only a bit thicker, and knotted with muscle in places she was not. He had something on her. But she was brazen. She wouldn’t fall down like this. He was asking for a fight. She had none. No swords. No dagger. No glass. There was nothing for her to hide behind. All she had was herself. It was down to a primal hit. Fight or flight. Bare hands. Bare, abrasive gall. Down to gnashing threats, pure presence, intimidation, and clear, clean cut, primal dominance. She stood there. Just waiting. Heart beating like a cannon, an endless drumming motion. One move. That was all it would take. And she’d have to spring. She’d be forced to spring. She was making herself look bigger. Stronger. More deadly. But she wasn’t. She wasn’t deadly now. She wasn’t any of that.

“You’d be the perfect one to help me, you know,” he went on, only a murmur now. Blood was rushing everywhere, to her fingertips, and her fists. Her eyes flew about him. Anywhere. Anywhere open. Anywhere to hit. Anywhere weak. Her hands were nearly trembling. Her mind was blurring. She began to breathe harder. He was only a stride away. Not a move. She was frozen. Her eyes were wild. Everything was slow, but she couldn’t think. She couldn’t think. She always thought. But she couldn’t. No reason. No logic. No thought. Only—

Was she tense? All over. She couldn’t work. The smell. His breath. It was tarred with rum. Clothed in sweat. An odor. A black, oily odor. Then the wood, the moss, the urine, the vomit. The walls were closing. Touching her. He was right there, stretching out to seize her arm, her arm that wouldn’t move. Fight. Fight or flight. Slimy, rough hand, right around her wrist, sliding. Up. Up to her waist. She couldn’t move.

Fight.

Fight.

“You done this before, darling?” he murmured.

“No,” she whispered. That was the truth. A naked truth. A heresy to her name, the wench. How could it be the truth? She was a wench.

She was shaking. It was coming.

Flight. Fight.

Fight, then flight.

But,

She needed to move.

 _Just move_.

_Just—_

“It’s real easy,” he whispered, soft. Brushed her hair back. “Jus’ do what I say.” Pulled her collar down. Loose, and her breast was nearly showing.

Bare,

Empty

Naked.

The fucking wench

She was.

But

Fight

_Just_

_Move_

_Just_

_MOVE_

_Now NOW NOW!_

She pulled away

And he grabbed at her, got her arm.

Down,

She hit the ground and hit and hit and

SCREAMED,

Cried out, hit and scream, and

God, where was He,

God?!

And hit and Tear, her shirt, the sleeve fell off, and down and

Hit and yell, his face, and teeth, the breath

His mouth

Hit, down, her head to the floor, his knees on her arms, crotch in her face, his hands on his trousers, pulling, run Run RUN RUN Go GO Hit Hit and he opened it and

Push free FREE FREE, and he slammed her down, a SCREAM,

And down but sinking into his flesh, his arm she bit him until flesh came out, and YELLS HE YELLS and the Blood, she slipped, he hit the wall, and she kicked his pants, from the ground and he Screams

And up

UP and GO

His yells,

But she ran and ran, up and up and up,

Thundering after her, death on legs and the blood

On her arms, and up and up, around the corner, Up and up and up, further, higher, somewhere, and she slammed into a body, a man. She fell backward and hit hard, and above her, as her breath was crying, as death roared up the halls below, Maccus, above her, towering far too tall, but shocked.

She scrambled to get up again and tried to run past, but he caught her and pinned her against the wall, just to stop her.

“ _No_!” she whimpered. “No, no, no!” She couldn’t yell; the sound wouldn’t come out. She squirmed, but he held on too hard. The wall was slippery, and she squirmed more. She was desperate. Her eyes were wild and she writhed and fought, completely mad to get out. Maccus held, but she slipped from him on the wall and fled, up to the forecastle deck and right up the foremast, and he let her go, standing up straight again.

He turned around and heard quick galloping footsteps climbing the stairs to the gun deck. Koleniko burst around the corner and stopped in front of him.

“Where’s the slut?” he demanded, panting, holding his groin, a bloody mass running down his arm. Maccus said nothing and stared at him.

“Where is she?” he almost roared.

“What are you doin’?” Maccus snapped, ignoring him. It was a higher demand. Koleniko glared, his breathing mad.

The blood all down his arm. “What’s all that?” Maccus questioned. It was deep.

“I’ll tell you,  _fucking_  bloody hell,” Koleniko snarled. “The fucking whore bit me. Bit out of my bloomin’ arm!  _Where’d_  she go?!” He stepped forward and Maccus blocked him.

His eyes went dark with fury. “What are you doin’?” the navigator growled.

“You had your chance,” the first mate snarled back, towering over him. He was much taller, and much thicker in stature. “Go and leave her be.”

“Oh, I think I have all the right to—!”

“I  _said_ , leave her be, that’s an _order_ ,” Maccus interrupted, dangerous tone, teeth bared, darker than Koleniko could muster. “You had your chance and she got away.  _Go_. An’ clean that up.”

Koleniko growled, but he turned. Maccus watched him leave the main deck, down the stairs, watching until he couldn’t hear footsteps anymore. He turned around and looked up the foremast. She had climbed up to the first yard and wrapped herself around the mast, clinging to it like death, some horrible fear in her eyes. There had been dry blood all around her mouth. In all his damned years, he wouldn’t have believed a word the navigator had said, but there it was, running down her mouth. She’d really bitten part of his arm out. It was madness. She’d fought him tooth and nail, the bitch. But she’d won. Woe betide the bastard with rotten luck enough to corner that wench in the lower decks.

She watched him as he turned to head back up to the quarterdeck for watch. She did not move. She did not want to get down. She would stay there, right where she was safe, right where nobody could get to her. She tied herself to the mast with the loose rigging, and leaned herself onto it, arms wrapped around it, almost holding on, mainly to just grasp something, and she did not come down at all.


	9. Chapter 9

Her arms and legs were raw and sore. She opened her eyes, and her body was stiffly wrapped around a mast, tied to it by the rigging. At first, she couldn’t remember, but it was a short moment of bliss. Her soul sank back down, and she untied the knot she’d made the night before and pulled herself to stand on the yard. The sun had not yet risen. The waters were still dark, and the ship was shrouded in the grey morning shadow of the earth.

She grappled weakly with the ropes around the mast and painstakingly lowered herself down to the forecastle deck. There were not many worse places to sleep than on a yard. The worst place would be the place that killed her. Or perhaps that would be the best.

She rigidly made her way to the main deck, into Hell’s sweaty bosom. It was empty and silent, which did not bother her at all. She would have preferred silence and inactivity. She was not in the mood for trouble. She just wanted to slip away unnoticed into the shadows where nobody could see her or find her. And she wanted to do that before anybody else was up.

A feeble strip of light began to peek over the eastern horizon. Geneva had never really been up early enough on most days to actually watch the sunrise. Her work aboard the _Dutchman_ seemed to prohibit the idea of free time, and consequently, she’d never had the chance to actually witness the event until now. Certainly, she’d seen a sunrise before. But no two sunrises looked the same. So, she occupied herself for a few quiet moments, gazing at that humble light at the edge of the earth, where the heavens brushed the sea, the sun lurking just beyond the waves, waiting to pounce on the thick fog that blanketed the water, and she wished she could disappear.

She heard a noise to the left, and she turned quickly. Just as he had been the night before, Maccus was upon the quarterdeck, looking out over the ship and over the sea, watching diligently. As the sun began to rise and scare off the fog, he retired from his position and made his way down the steps to the main deck. He still had her swords.

She turned from him and looked back out to the horizon. She didn’t want to talk to anyone today, perhaps not ever again. At least not if she didn’t have to. The waves looked as though they could be rolling sheets, deep and endless, and she could sleep there. She could lay and never wake, a perpetual sleep, a endless, lulling dream.

There came a low grunt from behind her, and Geneva turned and looked up at Maccus. He was holding her swords out toward her. She stared at them.

He rolled his eyes after a couple of seconds. “Do you _not_ want them?” he asked, the annoyance in his voice apparent, but there was an undertone she could barely hear. Geneva looked back up at him, tired confusion tinting her eyes, but she was only met with empty, chilling blue and a wall of impatience. She looked down at her swords, right at the hilts, and she reached out to them. Her fingers brushed the smooth, weathered sheath of her rapier, and her eyes traveled down to the two glinting hilts, but she didn’t grasp them. _What did he mean by this?_

“I don’t have all day,” his voice rumbled lowly with impatience, and she finally took them. As soon as she had, Maccus had turned from her and headed off across the ship. She secured her swords back at her sides where they belonged, and then she looked after him. Her voice was deep in her chest, somewhere she had trouble reaching. She beckoned it upward, just for one moment, and then she’d never speak again.

“Sir,” she called across the boat weakly. Maccus turned his head toward her with a frustrated look.

“What?” he asked, his face twisted into a permanent scowl. It was things like this that confused her. She could see through him only for a moment when he looked at her, but she couldn’t see long enough to understand.

“What are my orders?” she asked, a little louder this time. His brow furrowed, but he was only thinking.

“Cargo,” he said with a monotonous tone, and then he turned from her without a second glance.

“Aye, sir,” she murmured, but so that he could hear. Her response to orders had become a habit now. It didn’t seem to please the first mate that she followed orders so diligently now, but then again, nothing seemed to please the first mate all too much. He was either mildly irked or extremely irked. She had finally found it possible to operate in his presence, even on days when the atmosphere was plagued with his attitude. It was funny. In all that he demanded of her, she’d learned just how little it took to merely function.

As she turned to head down to the lower levels, a few men were coming up the stairs. She waited on them with her mind in her chest, immune to interaction, especially with regard to a certain face. She knew there was one among them she didn’t wish to see.

As soon as the stairway cleared, she headed down into the gun deck, then the orlop, and then the hold. A few men were already down there, as they were from the day before. She fell into the usual, unthinking routine; cargo up, nothing down; up to Purgatory and then down to Hell; into the cold, hopeless light, and then back down again to the endless darkness. It smelled rotten, and then it would smell almost tolerable for a spell, and then the air would become foul again. She didn’t bother to notice. She carried herself up and down, purging the powder kegs of the darkness and not herself, and her mind conjured up a dimensionless idea. If only someone were kind enough to light the keg on her shoulder. If only she could actually die. But then she had to set down her hope at the top and go right back down, and she had nothing.

She passed Bootstrap on the stairs, and she looked right at him, but she didn’t see him. He caught up with her from behind, but she didn’t offer any words.

“Did you make it?” he asked her, almost hopefully, and she knew what he was talking about. She didn’t want to think about it. She said nothing. She couldn’t really look at him too well, so she looked at his boots.

He hesitated, and she continued down further into the putrid black. He followed.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and it was genuine. She could hear that in people’s voices. But not that it really mattered now. She didn’t want to hear anything. Except for maybe the waves. If the ship went under right then, she’d hear the waves. It would hurt, but she’d hear them.

“I’m sure he never meant to hurt you by it,” Bootstrap offered again. She mulled on it. She didn’t want to. It hurt.

She reached the bottom of the stairs, already accustomed to the blackness enough not to stumble, to the point it was nearly natural, and she shouldered another keg. Bootstrap did the same and followed back upward.

“Sometimes men just get those feelings,” he continued. He was trying. “There’s not a whole lot they can do about it when they do.” Geneva continued up. She gave a blank nod. Up another flight.

“It’s hard to think when you get those urges,” he added, the steps creaking under their boots. “Especially when you’re still young. I’m sure he didn’t mean you no harm.”

Geneva was quiet. She had begun to think for a moment, all so suddenly, as if someone had sparked the powder on her shoulder in surprise. But there was only the musty smell of rot. She breathed a sigh, and her heart rate lowered again. But her mind didn’t shut down. She wanted to say something to him. She hadn’t said a word. He was trying. And maybe, just maybe, he was right.

“I’m sure he didn’t,” she said. She tried to mean it. It was what Bootstrap said. Surely he spoke from experience.

“He didn’t,” Bootstrap asserted feebly. Feeble was enough. And yet, she’d found something. It only served to silence her, but not her mind. She couldn’t numb herself anymore. She couldn’t get the smell of sweat out of her mind. She couldn’t rid her mouth of the taste of blood. It was all stained there, in her very mind. She wished she could go back, back to her former self, and never surface again.

“And maybe he’ll be through with it for a while,” Bootstrap continued. Geneva felt cold. Some kind of deep cold, one that she’d never felt before. She sat inside her own head, watching everything happen through her eyes.

“Maybe,” she repeated softly. Bootstrap wouldn’t lie. He could be bitter sometimes. But he wouldn’t lie to her. He was trying to help. He was trying. The least she could do was listen. The least she could do was try to be helped. He offered a chance. A possibility. “Maybe” was the only thing standing between her and the navigator. “Maybe” couldn’t wash the taste of blood out of her mouth.

“Jus’ how men are sometimes,” Bootstrap’s voice came, somewhere ahead in the darkness. Down the stairs, and then again, down into the blackness, down into the stench.

“Just how they are,” she breathed, picking up a keg after him, and then she followed as he headed up the stairs before her, up and up again, into the sea air. But all she could smell was the stench.


	10. Chapter 10

The seas were calm for a few days, which made work aboard the _Flying Dutchman_ somewhat tolerable for the time being. But that time was regrettably brief.

In only a day, clouds appeared out of nowhere. It was nearly as dark as night. The winds became nearly unmanageable, and the gusts tossed Geneva around the ship constantly. But true hell had yet to arrive.

First, the air became thick. It was so saturated, it was nearly impossible to breathe. Clothing stuck to the skin like a layer of hot wax. It was so visibly dense that Geneva noticed fog was descending upon the ocean in the distance. But it wasn’t fog.

It was only a matter of minutes. The fog grew, spanning the horizon, swallowing up everything in view.

And then came the downpour.

It went for days on end. There was absolutely no place on the ship that was remotely dry. Everything was soaked all the way through and dripping. Even down below in the hold, there was water everywhere. It was as if the ship had submerged, and the crew was simply walking as they would through the water.

But it was the noise that was truly unbearable. It was almost impossible to hear anything that anyone said over the sound of the rain pelting the wooden deck and the bodies of men. It made an ear-shattering noise, a constant piercing screech that echoed throughout the whole ship. Nowhere was there silence.

Geneva’s hair was constantly stuck to her neck and face. Her large tunic stuck to her crudely, and she hated that it was white, but there was nothing she could do. Her boots filled with water no matter how much she emptied them. She wrung out her hair every few minutes, but it only became heavy again with water.

Out on the main deck, the crew was practically swimming. It was impossible to see more than ten feet in front of oneself, the rain was so potent. Geneva felt as though she was drowning wherever she went. With every breath she took, she inhaled water. It was constantly running down her face, into her mouth, all over her.

She really began to loathe her hair. It was becoming so heavy with the water that she couldn’t deal with it. She couldn’t tie it back anymore, for it was too soaked to even hold. Finally, she plaited it, which helped, but strands of it still lingered around her face, and whenever she turned her head at all, they smacked her in the face, sopping wet and unforgiving.

Even her room was soaked. Her cot was a puddle, and she figured she could have slept better in the brig. There was no such thing as being dry. It was constant drowning, constant swimming, constant lugging just to walk. The air was thick and heavy, impossible to maneuver normally in. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t hear. She couldn’t see. She couldn’t feel. All she had was her own mind and whatever was in there to keep her company, and all that waited for her there were her own thoughts, which were anything but friendly. They were worse than the screaming rain, telling her that death would be an admirable decision, but she didn’t know how to die, and so she remained as she was, simply dying without ever reaching death itself. When her melancholy nothingness ran out, she searched for another crevice of her mind, and she found a horrible bitterness, which, once she had discovered it, consumed her in whole—her demeanor, her thoughts, her very soul—and she wore that as herself, for anger was the only thing keeping her warm inside the suffocating confines of her trousers and tunic.

It went on like that for two weeks. Then, it abruptly stopped. And the absence of noise was enough to wake Geneva from an already unrestful doze, and without bothering to return to her cot, she made herself ready before the sun was to come out, and she headed out to the deck.

She met eyes with the tiny sliver of light on the horizon, and then turned her eyes to the retreating clouds, unfeeling and thoughtless. She didn’t wish to think of rain. She didn’t wish to think of anything like she used to. Her old thoughts were nothing to her now. She didn’t think that much of anything anymore, except for maybe how much she had begun to hate herself. But in the midst of her hatred, she could easily share the burden and place it upon the shoulders of those who had cursed her to such an existence, even if it was only in her mind. And so, as she was, all by herself on the main deck, barely visible, she pulled out her swords, and on the damp stone build of the capstan, she began to sharpen them.

She had limitations with her hatred, though. As much as she wanted to slice him right through with her own sword, she could not kill Jack Sparrow. She could only hope to watch someone else do the job for her, the thought of which left her begrudgingly unsatisfied. She loathed the thought of watching someone else kill the man who’d ruined her life. She wanted to do it herself. She wanted to deliver the final blow. But she was trapped in a bond that she couldn’t break without a whole lot of pain. Barbossa’s death was hard enough on her soul, and as much as she hated Jack, she didn’t want to taste what a direct kill would do to her.

There was a bit of noise coming from the lower decks as some of the crew began their ascent to the main deck. Geneva didn’t bother looking. She didn’t care to look. She was busy occupying herself.

For a while, the men left her alone, and didn’t even speak to her, which she was quite content with. She hadn’t missed conversation for the past few weeks. Her mind was a good enough companion.

Suddenly, there was a low but demanding voice coming at her from one side. She almost winced, but instead, she placed more pressure on her cutlass blade.

“What are you sharpening those for?”

She didn’t look up. She already knew the voice. “I’m goin’ to fight someone,” she said, bitter vengefulness in her voice.

“You’re goin’ to fight someone,” Maccus repeated almost monotonously. He said everything like that. She didn’t care one way or another.

“Aye,” she muttered, not wishing to continue with conversation all that much. Hearing the sound of her own voice was something odd. But she heard Maccus snort at her, and her eyebrows furrowed some, but she didn’t say anything.

“An’ what are you gonna do after that?” he asked, and she became slightly annoyed with his persistence. She didn’t even know what that question meant.

She inspected her cutlass and then dried it off with her tunic, sheathing it. “What do you mean?” she asked, finally turning to face him, not particularly in the mood for crypticness.  His face didn’t offer any indication of an answer, and she stared at him, bored. He returned the look, only his eyes peered down at her, almost intimidating. He always loomed over her, and he appeared to feel entitled to that position.

“Ain’t you gonna kill ‘em?” Clanker piped in from behind him, and Maccus looked at him, unamused. The first mate never seemed to be amused by much of anything. Clanker chuckled at Geneva, as if his question was something obvious. Everyone on that blasted ship treated her like she was an idiot. Geneva grumbled in his direction. She didn’t feel like explaining her position. They wouldn’t care anyway.

“She ain’t gonna kill ‘em,” Maccus finally said, and Geneva looked in his direction.

“And what gave you that idea?” she asked him, just waiting for an insult.

“You didn’t say you was goin’ ta’ kill ‘em,” Maccus said plainly, as if it were common fact. “An’ you fight like some circus juggler.”

Clanker and a few other men snickered at the comment in approval. But Maccus’ words only came as a shock to Geneva. Suddenly, she didn’t want to retreat back to her silence anymore.

“What?” she retorted, rather confused, and nearly offended. “I do not.”

“All you do is flail your swords around,” Maccus replied, as if he knew what he was talking about. “All jus’ to distract.” The deck was quieting down now. The men were listening.

“ _You’ve_ never fought me,” Geneva countered lowly. “And I wouldn’t suggest it. I’ve killed plenty of men before you.”

But her threat fell on deaf ears. It didn’t even provoke him. “I’ve seen you fight, and that’s all I need ta’ see,” he retorted, and Geneva narrowed her eyes. There was something different about him, the way he spoke to her, and the way he remain above her without even trying. It really pissed her off. For the first time in her life, she cursed how young she looked. She had twenty years of experience behind her. And this seadog dared to say that she had the skills of a court fool.

“Maccus is a master swordsman,” said Palifico, slowly heading toward the rigging along with a few other men. “He don’ need to fight you to know nothin’ ‘bout how you fight.”

“All you is distractin’,” Clanker commented with a snicker, and a few men responded with an “aye” in agreement. The rest of the crew started to follow Palifico’s lead to begin their work, including Maccus. But Geneva had adrenalin in her veins. She wasn’t finished yet. She’d show him watching wasn’t the same thing as learning.

“How many years experience you think I’ve got?” she asked calmly to his back, and this was what provoked him. Maccus stopped, and a few men turned back to watch, interested again.

He narrowed his eyes and turned back to her. She was young, or she looked young. She could swing a sword around and hit a few men who weren’t ready for it, and her speed made sure of that. But she had nothing more than that. Maccus let a smile creep onto his face, and he chuckled.

“How many do I think you have?” he repeated, tickled by her question. “You think me a fool.”

She pulled out her cutlass and pointed it right at him. There was a fire in her eyes, one he’d just fueled knowingly.

“I do,” she affirmed, without hesitation at all. “And now, I’m waitin’ for the _master swordsman_ to prove himself just that.”

“So you’re lookin’ for a fight then?” Maccus retorted. She was serious. As young as she looked, the legends had always described her as far beyond her apparent age. She wasn’t that old, though. She hadn’t existed in his younger days, which meant that he _did_ have more experience, at least mathematically (if he could even reason in those terms; he wasn’t some poppycock scholar).

“I thought I’d give you a fair chance,” she replied, a smartass look in her eye. “You should be honored. I’m normally not that lenient.”

Maccus scoffed. “Good God,” he groaned, reaching for the hilt of the sword strapped on his back. “Your ego reeks.”

“So do you,” she said lowly, and he pulled his blade out of its sheath, holding it out to the light to inspect it.

“A longsword?” came her voice, and he glanced at her face. She expected he was joking. That was how he knew she had no experience.

“Works jus’ fine,” he replied, admiring the dirty hilt. It was an old beauty to him. But it fit him just right.

Out came her rapier. Maccus rolled his eyes, his grin disappearing. “You really do want a fight.”

She narrowed her witch’s eyes. “No,” she said, readying herself. “I want a kill. That way, everyone on this damned ship will know me for who I am: a Sea Lioness.”

“Hn,” he nodded, almost boredly. “You’ve certainly come a long way. Now you’re aimin’ to kill, huh?”

“I always have,” she growled, locking in her stance. She was at the ready. Maccus slowly brought his monstrous sword up to point at her, and then he let his lips curl into the most leering smile, ugly teeth bared.

“As have I.”

She didn’t expect him to make the first swing, but she reacted just fine. She brought up both of her swords to block his downward blow. She expected it to be heavy, simply because it was a long sword.

But it was heavier than she expected. She could barely hold it up. He was only using one arm. He shoved her backwards, and she flew and caught herself, almost stumbling. He was something else. He was no joke.

He swung at her again, even harder than the first time. She tried to push him off, but she ducked out of the way and slashed at his side. He blocked and shoved her off, and she retreated a few feet. The whole ship was watching.

She wasn’t panicking. She had to come up with a strategy. He wasn’t giving her much time to think, only enough to react. He came at her again, putting her on defense. She couldn’t land an offensive.  She couldn’t get him to retreat. He was forcing _her_ to. She didn’t like that.

He backed her against one side of the deck, and she jumped and balanced on the rail to gain height. He swung at her feet and she barely dodged. She fled down the rail toward the front of the boat.  She was stalling. She could only hope to tire him out until she thought of something. That wasn’t likely.

He swung, slamming down on her as she blocked, and she had to try and make a direct hit. There was no distraction in his technique. It was heavy, swift, and effective. She had to meet that. But she couldn’t.

She pulled back, and swung straight at him with her rapier. He swung at the same time, and the clash was harsh. His strength was unbelievable.

“I wouldn’t fight like that unless you wanna break a sword,” Maccus warned, the horrible grin still played across his face. He was enjoying this. She was struggling to get by. She glared at him. She didn’t want him to know she was struggling, but it was too late for that. It was obvious. He was trying to make her lose focus. She pulled back and went to strike again, right at him. He deflected, and she tried at him again. Still, he held her off, without even trying. She was becoming anxious. Long swords were traditionally wielded with two hands. He was only using one. All he had to do was grab with the other hand, and he’d slice her in half with one stroke. She knew it. He _was_ a master.

She pulled back, but he rushed up to meet her again, and she had to retreat further.

“You ain’t doin’ well to that rapier,” he said again, his voice a bit more serious this time. She growled at him.

“ _You’ll_ not tell me how to fight,” she snarled, and she came at him hard. His grin disappeared. He blocked easily, shoving away her cutlass, and then, his other hand came to grip his hilt, and he sliced at her rapier right at the center of the blade, so fast she couldn’t retaliate. The hit almost knocked the sword from her hand.

She jumped back quickly, and the rapier felt off. She looked at it quickly, and it was bent. She looked at him in shock, but he was no longer amused. He carried himself with real purpose now. He was going to beat her.

She dodged a harsh, double-handed swing again, and she fled across the ship. He came at her hard again, and she blocked with her cutlass on top, freeing her rapier to slice lower, but he blocked them both, and then he hit her cutlass so hard it flew across the ship. She recovered and switched her remaining sword to her right hand. Her right arm had suffered fewer blows.

She blocked and she tried to go for more offensives, but he was too strong. He beat down on her with every swing he took, and his strength only seemed to grow. Every blow became harder and harder to block. She was running out of options. She had to get to her cutlass. It was across the boat.

She had just enough time to glance at it before he came in with another hit. She dodged and flew down the length of the ship. He came up behind her and she tried to block, but he shoved her aside and she almost lost her balance. He stood between her and her cutlass, and she swung at him in hopes of catching him off guard. But he was swinging, too, and with both arms. Their blades hit, and then, her rapier snapped.

Her heart stopped. She couldn’t speak. She was wielding nothing but a hilt and a jagged, five-inch blade. _What had just happened?!_

“You...” she sputtered, and Maccus lowered his sword, a bored look on his face.  She couldn’t believe it.

“You broke my rapier!” she said finally, completely flabbergasted. Maccus didn’t bat an eye, and turned from her now that she had been disarmed.

“I kept tellin’ you to hold your sword right,” he replied, picking up her cutlass and throwing it to her. “I didn’t break it. You did.”

She caught it, and her anger suddenly erupted, and she threw the hilt aside, swinging her cutlass at him wildly.

“You did that on purpose!” she snarled, and he blocked her sword, baring his teeth at her.

“When you hold a sword wrong, you can force it to do things it wasn’t made for,” he growled at her, holding her in sword-lock. “ _You_ didn’t listen. _You_ held it incorrectly. _You_ broke broke it.”

She swung at him in her rage, and he parried, coming down on her cutlass hard. She tried to push him off, but he was too strong.  He was bearing down on her.

“An’ you best swallow that temper,” he warned her lowly, a dangerous look in his eye.  “You’re creatin’ openings.”

“Shut up,” she hissed at him, and she pulled back and swung as hard as she could at him, but he deflected easily, and swung. His strength was almost inhuman. She didn’t have a chance. She knew. But she was enraged. She would never forgive that. He broke her rapier. He did it on purpose. Her anger flew.

She tried to swing at his legs, and he parried and went for her neck. She ducked, gasping as some strands of her hair were sliced. Her blade flew at him, but it was a clumsy strike, for she was losing her footing. His sword met hers, and her cutlass was flying across the ship again. His arm came back and he hit her with the hilt of his sword. She hit the deck hard, and when she looked back up, there was a blade at her neck.

“The great sea lioness,” he spat down at her with mocking eyes. “Bested by a _fool_.” She was hot with anger. It took everything she had to stay put. His sword was at the ready to finish her. She was seething, in hatred and embarrassment. How dare he? How dare he tower above her? How dare he mock her, the divine creation of a goddess? How dare he have power over her?

But she was just waiting for him to strike her. She was waiting for that blade to cut her throat and draw blood. That was when she’d prove him wrong. She would wait a thousand years for it if she had to. She’d prove him wrong, and she’d devote her life to it. He’d never win.

Maccus watched her. So this was the horror that Koleniko had met that night. She was out of control. A venomous, bloodthirsty whore. Her face was dirtied from when she’d fallen, and she didn’t bother to wipe it off. She was hideous. And he had his sword at her abominable neck. But a strike wouldn’t prove anything for him. Cutting her throat would be a triumph for her. She’d heal herself and prove him a fool for trying to kill her. So, he stepped back from her and sheathed his sword. Her expression couldn’t have been more shocked.

“Go,” he said down at her, allowing a grin to spread across his face. “I don’t kill cowards. They’ll drown in their own pity.”

Her face slowly became red with anger, embarrassment seething from her audibly and her teeth clenching like those of a maddened bull. She stood up with a horrible outburst of a growl and grabbed her cutlass, ignoring the laughter of the crew as she retreated down into the depths of the ship, escaping the scorn of the men to wallow in her own.


	11. Chapter 11

Geneva spent a few days down below. She didn't dare come up into the light of the main deck. She had never been so embarrassed in her life. And she was completely infuriated.

It was impossible. She couldn't have hoped to beat someone the size of the first mate. She hadn't been the problem. Everything about her stature and stance had been perfect. She couldn't have performed any better. Any other man would have fallen to her blade. He should have been cut down as well.

But the odds were stacked against her, and she wished she could have seen it sooner. It might have saved her a sword. Geneva glared at the thought. She would never forgive him for that. Her Spanish rapier, her prized sword, the one she had earned after years of practice—complete garbage. Useless. And it wasn't her fault.

She knew enough about swords to know that they didn't just break in half. Rapiers were well made. They didn't just snap. Unless, of course, you were fortunate enough to have a run in with the bloody first mate and his damnable longsword, and then he'd cut your sword in half and blame it on your technique.

Geneva fumed. That was not her fault. She knew exactly how to handle her own sword, contrary to what that arrogant brute thought. How she loathed being overshadowed. If anyone was unworthy of a well-standing position in the hierarchy, it was the first mate. God, she despised him for stepping all over her.

And as much as she wished to tear him apart herself, she knew even trying would result in instant failure. He was massive. And he was skilled. If he had been any smaller, his skill wouldn't have mattered. Geneva was convinced. It was his mere size that allowed him leverage enough to beat her to the ground in everything she did.

It took a while to swallow the bitterness. But she knew she would have to if she was ever going to make it off that ship. If she could best the first mate, nobody else would stand in her way. She'd have a straight shot at getting off the Dutchman. So, she would have to be a lot smarter about things from now on. If she couldn't beat him physically, she would have to beat him mentally.

That was the area in which she held the ace. The first mate wasn't stupid, but Geneva had a lot more in her favor. She could learn quickly, much faster than he would catch on. By the time he did, she would already have surpassed him in both skill and strength. All it would take was patience and a daft mind. She could do it. She had finally found a certain way around him. All she had to do was go right through him without him even knowing it.

So, after three days of seclusion in the lower decks, right at the break of dawn, she climbed the stairs to the main deck and stepped into the scattering fog, into the blinding golden rays which catapulted from the east, shattering the western darkness. The wind swept and curled, catching the hasty fog by its sheepish tail and sending it sailing straight into the sun, and the waves burled under the hull, the ship rising and falling in rhythmic, majestic sways.

She weaved into the morning labors, manning the sails, tying the rigging lines, climbing up the masts and across the yards, swabbing every inch of wood when the waves swelled and sprayed over the rails. She folded herself into the men, just another plodding body, and when the sun had finally risen over the highest yard, the whole congregation stopped and made themselves as comfortable as they could, and hardtack was passed around for the midday ration. Geneva found herself a nice niche between rigging ties on the starboard side of the deck, snatched a decent piece of hardtack from the quartermaster before he threatened her with extra labor for sorting her rations, and settled herself just out of reach of the sun under the shadow of the forecastle deck. She enjoyed her hardtack as much as she could, for it was not without the usual unpleasant moisture, and when she had finished, she sat up and scanned the ship with a purposeful eye.

The first mate was on the portside catwalk, speaking nonchalantly with the man called Palifico. He was only crewmate who could stand next to Maccus and not be completely dwarfed. His entire lanky body constituted of nothing but coral, and where his eyes should have been, hesitant tubeworms protruded for only a few moments before retreating back into his skull. His pacific voice would roll from somewhere on his face, gliding forth from an obscured mouth that probably existed, but likely wasn't at all pleasant-looking, and nobody was courageous enough to inquire.

Geneva crossed the ship and climbed the stairs to the catwalk, finally coming to stand behind the first mate, waiting with an uncanny patience. Palifico could see her from where he stood, and before long, Maccus was finally forced to turn and address her, but not without obvious annoyance.

"What do you want?" he growled down at her. He definitely stood at an intimidating height. But Geneva held her ground easily.

"I want you to teach me to swordfight," she replied, unfazed. She had decided. She would learn his skills and fall into stride next to the rest of the men. If made herself one of them, she would earn her respect. And, she would have a chance to make a break for it when the opportunity presented itself. This was merely the first step in that direction. It was as simple as that. A bloody good plan it was. She really had to congratulate herself on that one. It was the most unexpected scheme she had ever thought up, especially since she had done it without the use of her hypnosis.

But, just as abruptly, as if she had slammed into a dead end, Maccus' single right eye narrowed immediately in suspicion. The scowl lines on his face deepened.

"No," he asserted simply, and he turned away from her.

Geneva was dumbfounded. She had not expected that. He had no reason to decline. She had been sure of it. How could he have suspicions?

"What?" she demanded, nearly speechless. "Why?"

Maccus heaved a long, irritated sigh and faced her again, already irked enough for one day.

"Because you lack the ability to be taught anything," he snorted. Geneva narrowed her eyes.

"You lack the ability to teach," Geneva shot back, crossing her arms. She would win this.

Maccus fully faced her now. "Then why'd you ask me?"

"Because you beat me," she answered simply. "Why'd you turn me down? Afraid I'll be an embarrassment to ya'?"

Maccus glowered at her now, and it was clear that she had struck the right nerve. He didn't say a word for a few moments, still trying to look less stumped than he was, and for a brief instant, Geneva felt a hope rising in her chest. He was going to give in. She was sure of it.

"Go work the damn rigging," he growled at her finally, which wasn't a "yes," but it wasn't a "no." Geneva could take that. She turned away and followed her orders diligently, as if she hadn't spoken a word to him.

She couldn't help but smile. She could feel the heat of his frustration, and that delighted her. She had the upper hand when it came to intellect, and she knew it. He was nothing but a brute. She had figured him out. She didn't even need her eyes to analyze men now. All she needed to do was strike a nerve and she was a god over puppets.


	12. Chapter 12

It seemed that anything could wake her up nowadays. Just a creak of the boat, and she was awake, staring into the darkness.

It didn't matter what time of night it was either. If one particular groan of the ship aroused her, even in the wee hours of the morning, she would always be stuck there, unable to go back to sleep. It was a painful thing to get used to. And it was happening more and more often, for no particular reason.

Geneva sighed and sat up. There wasn't really any point in trying to sleep more. She could feel it was nigh morning again. Just a bit earlier than the day before. She had been very good about being on time to work every day. She was usually up and out on the deck before most of the men, save for whoever was on watch that night.

She plodded around in the darkness for her boots. That was the only thing she ever took off now when she slept. Never again would she undress on a ship full of men. Why she had thought that was a good idea, she had no clue. It was pointless to even try to get comfortable on that ship anyway.

Finally, when she'd slipped them on, she left her room and walked down the length of the gundeck. Most of the cannon doors were shut, but she could barely see the dim cracks of dawn light shining through. It certainly was early. Most times, the majority of the crew would make it up to the deck right as the sun first shot over the sea, which was acceptable. Geneva didn't dare go that late though. She didn't want to give anybody a reason to hound her.

She surfaced on the main deck and looked up at the catwalks. Empty, as she expected. She had heard some stirrings on the level below her, so she wasn't the only one awake by a longshot. But she was the only one up on deck, from what she could tell.

She climbed the stairs up to the catwalks and then to the forecastle deck. She had a good view from there. The quarterdeck would have been better, much higher actually, but for some reason, she really liked leaning over the bow of the ship like the figurehead herself and catching the misty air. The Dutchman wasn't all too majestic a ship in that particular sense, though. She didn't have a figurehead, but instead, just a gaping, sharp-toothed leviathan jaw. But Jones hadn't been going for vanity, Geneva supposed.

Jones had been rather silent around her. Where most of the men would taunt her, or at least be mildly annoyed by her presence, the captain failed to compare. In fact, Geneva honestly had not seen too much of him as of late. If she did, he did not come close to addressing her, but she was fooling herself if she said she wanted to address him either. She had reason to be suspicious of him. He knew exactly who she was, and he had reason enough to boot her off the ship, but he hadn't yet done so.

The Flying Dutchman never made port. That much she knew. But they didn't need to make port to simply throw her off the ship. For all they cared, she could have been tossed weeks ago, just out in the middle of the wreckage where they found her. If Jones had wanted her off the ship that badly, he would have done so. But there she was, practically a crew member, and Jones knew it and approved of it. Something didn't feel right about that.

She turned from the bow and looked across the ship. A few rough figures were coming up the stairs now. Rays of deep golden light were now shooting through the rails, casting intricate and clumsy shadows on the starboard catwalk. It was time to start.

Just as she was about to pass the foremast, she heard the grunt of the first mate, intending to catch her attention. When she looked up at him though, his arm was already swinging forward, an ax hurtling toward her head.

She kicked her legs out from under her right where she was and hit the deck, watching with wide eyes as the ax wedged itself deeply into the foremast above her. She finally took a shaky breath and stood up again, collecting herself enough to glare back at the lout.

He didn't look even the least bit sorry for nearly decapitating her.

"Not too bad," he observed, slowly making his way over to her. Geneva rolled her eyes and grabbed at the ax. Why he thought hurling a hatchet at her face would be a plausible way to examine her dodging reflexes, she didn't want to know. "Logic" and "Maccus" didn't ever fall in the same sentence. Perhaps she should have asked a different man to tutor her. The easygoing Palifico might have fared better for her.

She tried to pull the ax out of the mast, but it was wedged in farther than she anticipated. She pulled harder, and then, out of frustration, she yanked, boot against the mast, and it came out, nearly knocking her off her feet. But she wasn't going to be courteous now that it was out—oh, no. She would give him as much lip as she wanted at the moment for all she cared. Sure, she needed a way off the ship, but that could wait. She wasn't going to leave without knocking him off his own feet.

So, instead of turning to give him his ax, she simply took it with her and walked in the complete opposite direction, right across the ship. She didn't hear him coming after her, but suddenly, he appeared in front of her, right out of the wall, and she jumped, but just barely.

"The ax," he said monotonously. He really couldn't offer much inflection. His speech rarely strayed from his usual dictation of orders. In fact, he likely would have simply grabbed it from her if she was close enough. On the contrary, Geneva's voice could be quite colorful.

"Oh, this is your ax?" she inquired sarcastically, looking rather shocked. "I thought you was givin' it to me! As a gift! Nay, I think I'll keep it."

Maccus rolled his eyes. Geneva lived for those moments. "You know, you're really not helpin' yourself a whole lot."

"Of course I am," she replied carelessly, slinging the ax over her shoulder with fearless pep. "I've got meself an ax now, an' that's a step up from the likes of you, now isn't it?"

A sudden thrust of his hand at her made her brandish the hatchet, arm up at the ready to strike him should he try to grab at her. But instead of continuing, he stopped and raised a demeaning brow at her reaction.

"Mind you who's got the ax," she threatened lowly, arm still at the ready. Maccus didn't seem at all intimidated.

"Try me," he provoked, completely unamused. She stared at him for a moment, but he was serious. So, without any thought, she accepted his invitation and swung the ax at him as hard as she could. Before she could even land a hit, he had caught hold of her wrist, fully and easily restraining her. She struggled, still trying to land a hit, but his grip was far too strong. Her left arm was still free though, so she threw a punch right at his gut, as hard as she could.

Instead of wincing in pain, or even offering an utterance of discomfort, Maccus let out a boisterous laugh, echoed by a few other crew members who were watching. Before Geneva could even say a word, he had taken the ax from her hand and shoved her backward a few feet, still laughing. She was dumbfounded. She punched him square in the stomach, where she was sure he wasn't prepared, and it only made him laugh?

Maccus returned his ax to its place on his belt, and Geneva finally snapped.

"Oh, what's so funny now?!" she demanded loudly, stamping her boot on the deck. "Everything I ever do is funny to you!"

Maccus completely ignored her, as if she had never said a word, and made an effort to contain himself again, an amused grin still played across his face.

"Punch me again," he beckoned her, and she gave him a look. No way. She wasn't about to be the subject of another joke. She crossed her arms and glared at him, refusing.

"You wanted me to teach you to fight," he said, the smile disappearing from his face. "Now do what I say."

"No," she snapped at him. "All I asked was for you to teach me to swordfight."

"Well, it's clear to me you need more than that," he retorted, ignoring the lip she was giving him. "Now punch me. That's an order."

She glared at him real hard, but finally gave in and turned to face him. "Where?" she muttered. Maccus motioned at himself.

"Anywhere you'd like," he said, and then he stood up straight and waited for her, hardly even paying attention to her. She rolled her eyes, but she had no choice. So, she walked straight up to him, made a fist, and punched him as hard as she could, right in the gut.

Her fist met barnacles, cutting her knuckles open some, and she pulled back, hissing and

inspecting the wound on her hand. Maccus looked down at her, almost boredly. He hadn't even flinched at her blow.

"Are you going to hit me or not?" he demanded, and she gave him a funny look, pointing at her bleeding knuckles. He raised an eyebrow at her.

"And again, I ask," he continued. "Are you going to hit me or not?" Geneva fumed. Now he was just taunting her. She really hated this. But what else could she do?

Maccus had very little patience. "Hit me!" he ordered, and snarling, she did, in the same place as before. He was watching her this time.

"Come on," he yelled at her, as if she wasn't even trying. "As hard as you can, you whelp! I want to see where you're at!" She became so frustrated that she began punching his stomach with both arms now, simply whaling on him, but none of it had any effect on him. It was only tearing up her knuckles. There was no part of him that wasn't armored.

Maccus only began to laugh at her, as did the other men. "You have a long way to go," he chuckled, and she glared furiously at him, but he wasn't watching her to see, so she punched him square in the jaw.

He was caught a bit off guard by that move, but just the same, he recovered and grabbed her by the wrists, looking down at her, an annoyed grin on his face.

"Can't say you're not stupid as a rock," he said, ugly teeth bared in a leering smile. "But you're clever, I'll give you that much. You're just too weak for it to matter."

She hissed at him, and he hissed back at her for his own amusement, shoving her backward a few feet. She held her balance and just stood there, healing her knuckles. Maccus rolled his eyes at her.

"This way now," he called to her as he began to walk off in another direction. She glared at his back but she followed him, seeing she didn't have much of a say in the matter. She looked down at her knuckles again. Punching him really did damage—ironically, more to her than it did him.

"Hurry up," he growled at her, and she looked up again. He was standing beside the portside railing, near some big rigging ties. She really didn't like this. She hated it when the men laughed at her. The whole crew only made her do things to watch her fail for their own amusement. She was getting fed up, and fast.

"Can you hold this line?" he said, pointing to a rigging line beside him. She gave him a look.

"Of course I can," she said, and he promptly untied it and handed it to her. The way he held it made it seem weightless, but when he gave it to her, it was pulling as hard as anything. She grasped it and put her whole body into holding it down.

"That's a sail line," he said, his voice reverting back to its monotonous tone. She couldn't even look at him, she was so busy pulling.

"I've got it," she managed to grumble out, pulling down even harder. The wind was strong that day.

"How long can you hold that?" he asked her, and she grunted.

"As long as you want," she snapped thoughtlessly. She really didn't understand what this was for. Then she realized what she'd just said.

"Then hold it there 'til I tell you," Maccus said, and her eyes got big.

"How long?" she asked, a bit wildly. The sail was billowing and she winced. The rope was burning her hands.

"Until I tell you," he repeated, slightly annoyed at having to repeat himself. She winced, but there was nothing she could do. She wasn't going to back down. She would hold it for as long as he wanted, as stupid as it was.

She figured he'd have her hold onto it for an hour at most. Her hands were really starting to cramp. But he still hadn't told her she could stop. So, she was forced to keep holding the line.

Her day was being consumed by nothing but pulling. She was almost sure she'd been holding down that line for a few hours now. Her arms ached. Her hands were beginning to bleed. But every time she could bear to look across the ship, Maccus was engrossed in his own work, paying her no mind. She knew he'd it lay on her if she stopped, though, and she didn't want to look weak. So, she kept going.

She held that damned line for nearly three hours. She was about to collapse from exhaustion. She was pulling with her whole body, angled sharply at the ground, hauling. Her hands were bleeding profusely. She couldn't put her energy toward anything else at that point, or she knew she would drop it. But she was so sore she could barely feel her arms. Her grip was so harsh, she couldn't feel her fingers. Blood was running down the rope and her hands, dripping onto the deck below her. She couldn't let go. She couldn't let herself down.

She was so tired. She couldn't even look at anything. She didn't know how she was still standing. Her hands were burning. She didn't even have the energy to heal them. She was putting it all into pulling. She could feel the rope starting to slip, though. She gripped harder in resistance, but she didn't know if it even helped. It only made her hands hurt more.

She whimpered some, and heaved harder, digging her boots into the ground. Her hands felt like they were being impaled in one direction and crushed in the other. The pain was quickly becoming sharper.

She couldn't let go, not now. But she couldn't do this anymore.

Her hands slipped, and the rope flew from her grasp. She lost her balance and crashed to the floor with a groan of pain. She heard someone catch the line, though, and she weakly turned her head upward to see, although she could have easily guessed who it was. Sure enough, Maccus stood above her, easily gripping the line with one hand. He glared down at her and she gave him as awful a glare as she could muster.

"You're just downright cruel," she muttered weakly, and she looked back at her palms, which were still bleeding. Maccus tied the line down, and then he stepped over to her, gruffly pulling her up to her feet by her arms.

"Who told you to let go of that?" he demanded, but it wasn't quite as awful as he usually said it. It was simply spoken, instead of yelled. She could answer to that honestly.

"My hands," she whined, offering a look at her bloody palms. He glanced at them, and then looked at her again, not really accepting that answer, but not bothering to argue. She already knew she wasn't supposed to let go, so there wasn't a point. Bloody hands didn't help either.

He beckoned her to follow him, for the sun had risen just overhead. She followed him begrudgingly, and when they reached the lowest level of the main deck, under the shade of the quarterdeck, Maccus grabbed a few old rags and threw them at her. She caught them, and looked at him, confused.

"Wrap 'em up," he said, sitting on a crate behind him. She gave him a stupid look.

"I can heal 'em," she mumbled, not wanting to deal with the pain anymore.

"No," he said, shaking his head. "You're gonna want those calluses." Geneva rolled her eyes and scrunched her nose at him.

"Don't give me none of that," he warned her, grabbing a piece of hardtack from the quartermaster as he passed. Geneva huffed and held out her hand as the man gave her a piece of hardtack. She wasn't

allowed to choose anymore. She sorted too much for the quartermaster's liking, and her hands were all bloody, so of course he didn't want her choosing her own.

She sat down right where she was, and ate her hardtack. It wasn't that good, but it was food. Then, she began tearing strips off the old rags and started to wrap her hands up. It really stung, but she refrained from healing them. The pain was difficult to ignore, but she had to.

"Why'd you make me do that?" she mumbled, looking down at her newly bandaged hands. Maccus looked over at her.

"Start buildin' your strength," he replied, grabbing the bottle of rum from the sailor next to him and taking a modest swig. Geneva only watched. He didn't take nearly as much as the man before him, or even the man after him.

But what made her stare was that he didn't offer any to her. It was almost as if she didn't exist. He just passed right over her and handed off the bottle to the next sailor. Why, she didn't know. She brushed it off. She was too tired to complain at this point. Besides, she wasn't all that thirsty to begin with, and rum normally wasn't too appealing to her anyway.

By the time lunch was over, Geneva had finished wrapping her hands. She had never needed to bandage herself before. Despite how simplistic bandaging looked, she was not at all practiced in it, and she felt like a fool. Her hands were wrapped in a few centimeters of cloth, and were ridiculous looking. She just wanted to heal them instead. But she couldn't.

She looked up when she felt the heat of eyes, and Maccus was giving her bandage a disgusted look.

"What?" Geneva snarled defensively. She wouldn't admit a thing to him. As far as he was concerned, she knew exactly how to wrap her hands.

Maccus grunted and rolled his eyes, standing up to head back to work. Geneva stood up after him, expectantly glaring at him, waiting for whatever comment he had to slew at her.

When he saw her just standing there, he bared his teeth a little bit, and the gills on his neck flared out, like the disgusted flare of the nostrils on a noble looking at street rags. Geneva could have punched him right then and there, completely disregarding her hands. Never. Never would he win. She would never be beaten down.

He looked her up and down in one sweep, and his brow relaxed. Geneva's breath hitched. His expression changed. Just for a moment. Then, in one glance down at her hands, he hardened up again, and sighed annoyedly.

"You need to get hurt more often," he grunted at her, and then he turned and left her there, as the shadows spread and grew longer, and chased the edges of the earth.

And Geneva did not say a word.


	13. Chapter 13

It became a regular occurrence that the first mate would pull Geneva aside to train her. As rough as the first day was, she didn't expect things to get any easier for her, and she had been right to predict so.

"I know how to swing a sword," she complained. He hadn't even gotten his own sword out to teach her with, which made her feel even lower. She felt like a novice all over again. The way he was dumbing everything down for her was just plain insulting.

Maccus looked at her as if she were a joke. God, she hated that.

"Considering you broke your own sword, I'd say not," he replied, and Geneva grumbled.

"I didn't break that sword," she grouched, scowling.

"Yes, you did."

"No, I didn't."

"Yes, you did."

"No, I didn't."

"You're just not used to takin' blame for everything you do," Maccus retorted, and Geneva hissed at him. He rolled his eyes.

"An' you have hissy fits like a toddler," he added, just to make a point.

"Well you treat me like a toddler," Geneva snapped back at him.

"Maybe that's 'cause you are one!" he growled back at her, and she made a swing for him, but he caught her arm.

"You swing that at me and I'll beat you through the floor," he snarled her, and she only huffed at him, yanking her arm away. At this point, she didn't bother testing him. She knew all too well he would do it given half a chance.

She faced forward like she had been before, and swung the sword outward. She heard Maccus groan annoyedly.

"For the thousandth time, follow through," he said gruffly, and she swung again, ignoring him.

"You're just flicking it," he told her, and he took her sword right from her, which made her cross her arms in disgust. His arm dwarfed her cutlass. It looked like a toy in his hand.

"You need to control your swing," he said, and he thrust the blade with force in demonstration. She rolled her eyes.

"That's exactly what I did," she griped, and Maccus glared at her.

"You did not," he answered her shortly, handing her sword back over to her so she could try again.

"She don't listen too well, do she?" said a voice, and Geneva forgot herself and turned to look. She wished she hadn't.

She'd been trying to avoid the navigator for a long time now. So far, she had been successful. If she went down into the hold, she wouldn't see him at all, simply because he was of higher standing than than a swabbie or a cargo hauler. Up on deck, she simply stayed near people he didn't associate with. Things had been working out. Until now.

She was quite sure that the biggest reason he hadn't been making any advances was because she was armed now. Before, she couldn't really defend herself, but now, she could, and nothing would stop her from doing so either. Having her swords back made her feel powerful enough to save herself, even if she only had one sword as it stood.

But in all of this, she still hadn't hoped to lay eyes on him again. How she planned that would work out, she wasn't really sure, but it had worked for a couple of weeks now. She had tried to avoid even the mere thought of him. But now, as he stood there, she was forced to acknowledge him all over again.

She was nervous, but she didn't show it. She didn't want to look intimidated. She wanted to be intimidating, as she always had been. She didn't want to feel scared. She wanted to scare the daylights out of him by just glancing at him. But when he looked at her, he looked down upon her from a height, just as he had before. Nothing had changed. She would never be anything more than a whore with a sword.

She said nothing to him, and turned away. She regretted even looking behind her. She wished she could flush out her mind of him. But he was there, and now she couldn't think of anything else. She gripped her sword tighter, but did nothing.

"You'd be surprised," Maccus replied, and Geneva didn't look at either of them. "She's rather good about it."

"Is she?" Koleniko cooed, and she wanted to ram her sword right through him. "Well that's a promisin' change."

She could almost feel his eyes on her. She was shaking, but more out of anger than fear. Hatred was teeming inside of her, boiling lowly. Her temper was lying in wait, about to flare. She had no stomach for his passive aggression. He spoke to her by speaking about her to other men. He didn't even bother addressing her, he thought so lowly of her. Oh, what a damnable mistake.

Maccus said nothing in response to him, and she saw the first mate out of the corner of her eye. He was looking at her, just offhandedly studying her. She looked at the hilt of her sword. She could see a very distorted reflection of the sky. She didn't care what he would say if she impaled Koleniko right in that instant. But she did care what he would do, so she couldn't. At least not yet.

"She's a feisty one, though," she heard the navigator continue, his voice horribly slow, dreadfully dragging out each syllable, just to grind her down. "I'd hate to see that part go from her."

She could hear the intent in his voice, and without hesitation, she whipped her cutlass up to point right at his face. Startled, he took a step back. He was much closer to her than he had been before. She knew it.

The look on his face was a bit surprised, but almost amused, and then he flashed a careful grin at her.

"Well, good," he said lowly. "The wench still has it." His voice was loose and sticky. She would have given anything to decapitate him right there, to just swing and slice his head clean off. It would be easy enough. But Maccus was watching her. She could feel that. All she could do was glare at the navigator, who sat at the tip of her sword. If only looks could kill. She hoped he could feel every bit of her anger. This was a warning. She wasn't helpless anymore.

"I'd watch where you point that," Koleniko said, taking a step back, still smiling. This wouldn't be the last she saw of him, Geneva knew. She only stared at him coldly. But there was a faint part of her that whispered, ever so softly. A sharp glare would never ward him off. He would be back, when she least expected him.

She watched him as he headed off about his business, and only when he turned his back on her did she put her sword down. She finally turned back toward Maccus, a stiff look on her face. The first mate didn't look pleased, but he said nothing of it and made her continue her exercises.

It took a while. Even when she thought she was doing better, he wasn't satisfied with it, and made her do it again. She didn't know how he expected her to swing more forcefully than she was. She wasn't nearly as strong as he was, and she never would be, much to her disdain.

As hard as she worked, she made no progress. Maccus finally let her go, leaving her in a huff with sore arms. She didn't understand it. His standards were way too high. She couldn't hope to compete with the likes of a giant.

She strayed from the groups of men on deck and worked in relative solitude. The sun dipped lower. Even her shadow distanced itself from her, and she was glad of it. She didn't want any company.

Her mind was working. She needed off this ship. Her thoughts were cluttered. She was floating in the middle of the Atlantic, nothing around for miles: not a ship, not an island, not a goal in the world. There was only hopelessness.

She stopped. Her brow furrowed. Her eyes traveled slowly to the quarterdeck, where the captain had come out for a moment to observe.

She knew what was going on here. The longer she stayed here, the more disoriented she became, and Jones knew it. She snarled at herself. Why hadn't she noticed it sooner? This was not just a physical prison of bodies. This was a prison of the minds of men, a prison of souls. But it would not hold her soul. No. She had a goal. Davy Jones would not hold her captive, Jack Sparrow would not forget, and she would not forgive.


	14. Chapter 14

As she predicted for herself, Geneva's days became more brutal. The already strenuous work became even heavier upon her shoulders, and sweat replaced seawater on her brow. Her hair, already dirty and curling grotesquely with sweat and grime, was now becoming hard. It had been a while since it rained, and it had been an even longer while since she dove under the surface of the frothy ocean. The Dutchman had not submerged as of late either.

As differently as she would have imagined the idea of not bathing (or even swimming) for weeks on end, the actual experience was far less loathsome than she would have ever anticipated. Certainly, she smelled abhorrent. But the odor was not something she hadn't smelled before. It was always all around her; in the hold, stuck onto the men; if anything, it was a poor man's insect repellant. She didn't even realize that she smelled, simply because it wasn't out of the ordinary to reek. It was the grit of who she became, a mere grain of her being. And it didn't matter. Everybody on that ship reeked of the same sort of smell, although if you got close enough to another man to sniff him, his smell had a certain personality. Not that Geneva strived to be that close to any man in the first place.

But the weeks passed. And then they passed again. Her hands healed up rather slowly. They became rough and callused, hardly smooth as they once were. It took her time, but not too long of a time, to become stronger. Her hands were the first to change, as the skin of her palms began their evolution to match the texture of leather. It didn't happen overnight by any means, but by three weeks, her hands had become noticeably rough, and she could grip anything without a problem or pain.

Her muscles became more robust, not that they could really be seen under her bulky, stained tunic. She did become built though, seen or not. She didn't get any bigger, but Maccus' instruction had forced her to harness a kind of strength she didn't realize she even had. It was wasted potential to flail about like she used to. Even she could see that now. By no means was she invincible, but she certainly would have beat her former self to the ground easily in a fight, be it with swords, pistols, or fists.

And, she was still a blooming work. She wasn't quite weak anymore, but the stronger she got, the more she began to integrate her cunning into her fighting. She had taken a strange liking to fist fighting, and she wasn't sure why, but perhaps it was because she hoped to trump the first mate. He was the pinnacle of strength. He could knock her over in one stroke of the arm, and he could smash her skull with one displeased pinch of his fingers.

But the better she got, the more outgoing she became. The crew by now was used to her presence, whether they respected her or not. She could attest to the fact that they didn't, but oh, would she change that. Her plan was rolling once again, and it was thundering down its track, racing across the ground, sailing over bumps that couldn't have slowed her down if they tried, soaring over canyons so deep she forgot to look down. It was all too exciting. She had not lost her vigor. Jones had not killed her. This ship, these monsters of men; they had only thrown oil upon her flames, and she would duly repay them for that.

Certainly, she was mindful of herself. She was still a small individual. She had little comparable brute strength when pitted against even the lowest of men, like Bootstrap. But matched with her quick mind, her strength was double what it was before, maybe even triple. She was climbing her ladder again, slowly still, but in leaps and bounds in comparison to prior weeks.

Her most daring act yet was her annoyance of the first mate. He despised her just as much as she did him, but she gave him no mercy with such things. It might have been seen as foolishness on her part (which he did view it as and always would), but nonetheless, she knew her place on the ship, and she was able to maneuver so well within its confines that even the brute Maccus had to give an effort to catch her. She was no ordinary human, and of this she reminded him daily. How wrong he was—how wrong all of them were to label her as a mere mortal. She was a sea lioness, the sea lioness.

At first, she didn't have the physical ability to truly irk the first mate to her liking. But she was far more familiar with manipulation than just the physical tactics. (Furthermore, it wasn't quite fair to call it manipulation, for she actually wanted to annoy him beyond belief, for no other reason than to manifest her spite for him.) She was remarkably clever at the use of verbal tactics as well, which she exercised in small, precise doses; any more than that, and the boor would have her head for certain.

At the very beginning, he reacted rather foully to it all. He didn't have any stomach for her lip, and would beat her aside without a thought. But he wasn't stupid by any means, which Geneva came to realize quite early on, much to her surprise. He caught onto her game, and after some time, he began to bite back at her. She hadn't quite expected that, having only thought to drive him insane. But she wasn't opposed to competition, and so she bit down harder in retaliation. Instead of flatly ignoring her, he began to tolerate her to a degree, but he still beat her from time to time. She could easily heal herself without a problem, so she didn't mind it as much as one normally might. But, instead of cutting it out, she would pester him more, and he'd become even more irked.

But he was quite good at coming back full force. He found ways to hound her that she didn't even know existed. The worst was when he grabbed her by her hair and yanked her around. It gave her reason to yelp and shriek at him, and that was when she actually dared to try and land a hit on him. At the very beginning, she wasn't nearly fast enough, but that was only the beginning.

She made herself stronger as time went on, and this enabled her to be even more man-like, which she strangely loved the sound of. The more able-bodied she became, the more the men around her started to respect her. They actually began to speak to her, and not of her. Not that they were very kind when they did speak to her, but it was a change, a part of the process, and she could accept that. It was a strange type of respect, but she ate it up.

But there was one thing that really riled up Geneva a lot more than it should have. The only one who didn't seem to treat her with any kind of man's respect was Maccus. He had always been quite controlling as it was with her, and she always railed against him for it, but when he didn't change along with the rest of the crew, she felt a more personal urge to badger him. He was a stick in the mud with seemingly everything she did, and even though he taught her to fight, he'd never let her truly fight. He was opposed entirely to the idea of her gaining the status of a man, and that enraged her beyond anything.

There was one moment especially which only spurred her to hate him more than she already did. She had retired that night, along with the other sailors, to the lit area of the orlop. She didn't normally go down there, but she was feeling a bit more adventurous, and she didn't exactly want to appease the first mate. In fact, she wanted to do everything but that.

One of the things that gave the men their identity was their rum. They had store of it down in the orlop, and it was only heavily tapped into after dark. She didn't really like rum to begin with. She didn't drink it too often, but she had before, and she was considering it that night. She knew what she was doing, and she had her reasons. If she drank, she'd be seen as a man, just like the rest of them. She didn't have to get drunk, and she didn't want to. She wasn't dumb. She was just wonderful at painting a picture of herself. She'd had decades of practice.

And so, she reached out for the bottle when it was being passed that night in the orlop. She expected some odd looks. She was ready for that.

"The lassie wants a taste of a man's drink, does she?" Clanker blubbered at her, already way past tipsy. How he managed to get drunk that fast was beyond her. She only cocked her head at him, a confident look on her face.

"I've drank plenty of times before," she replied, and a few men chuckled. She ignored them as easily as she did the sweat on her brow and lifted the bottle to her lips.

"I could down it faster than the likes of you mutton-heads anyway," she boasted, and Clanker cackled, stumbling across the floor to face her like a contender.

"By all means," he laughed wickedly, but still drunk as anything. "Ladies first." There was another horde of laughs, but none laughed louder than Clanker, and he nearly fell over with his bout. Geneva couldn't help but grin along with them. She was becoming one of them now.

But as she lifted the nozzle of the bottle to her lips to prove herself—which she could have easily done—someone snatched it from her hand, and she turned and looked up, annoyed, ready to fight. But only Maccus glared down at her, solid as a rock and ugly as an anglerfish.

"Give that back," she demanded. She really had become quite daring towards him. Usually her guff was met with a beating, but she wasn't afraid of him. She was performing now, and she had the stage in front of the crew. How she acted here was crucial. But Maccus didn't swing. He was more serious than normal.

"You ain't drinkin' this," he said gruffly. She didn't know why she expected him to give it back. He wouldn't listen to the likes of her. But he was standing in the way of her plans, and she was becoming fed up quickly. She still couldn't get past him, even with the most simplistic things like this.

"An' why not?" she snapped back at him.

"Women don't drink rum," he stated, and Geneva spat at him.

"You outdated lobcock," she scoffed at him, not even caring if he heard. Maccus' face scrunched with disgust. "You can't tell me what I can and can't do. I can drink if I want to."

"Oh, can ya'?" he sneered back, his temper flaring. She could always get him to do that. It was as easy as pulling a string.

"Yes," she snarled daringly, ready for a beating at any second. "I can!"

"Do it then," he dared her, his voice dangerously low, and he suddenly loomed over her threateningly. The men around them were too drunk to care. She couldn't back out now. She had nothing to lose if she did it, and she had everything to gain. So she punched him square in his one remaining eye.

He hadn't expected her to actually throw a punch. She had never been daring enough to do it. But it happened so quickly that he didn't have time to catch her fist, and she got him hard enough to make him groan.

But she sure wasn't dumb enough to stick around. She knew that punching him was a dicey move already, but she was smart enough to hightail it out of there before he came after her, as he naturally would. Before he even had a chance to gather his bearings, she had scrambled out of the room and into the halls, scampering up the stairs to the gun deck, Maccus thundering after her, roaring like a bull. He was furious, and she knew it, and she had rightly earned every lick of the beating that was to come. Yet, she found certain amusement in it, although she didn't have the breath to foster up a laugh as she fled.

She was much faster than he was, and she raced up the stairs to the main deck, looking for a mast to climb up to deter him. She had wonderful balance. She always skipped across the railings and sail yards, and Maccus always griped at her to get down or she'd fall and break her neck, not that he cared if she did. She suspected he was simply jealous of the fact that she could balance so easily, and she couldn't have been more right. He was quite her opposite when it came to such things. He wouldn't last a moment on the yards without a line to grasp. He was far too large.

She made it onto the main deck and stopped for just a moment to get her bearings. There was the main mast and the foremast. It only took a second, but it was a second too long, and Maccus' wretched hand gripped her by the scalp and ripped her backwards, and he kicked her clear across the deck. She yelped, but there was nobody up there, save for the man called Greenbeard, who didn't bother to turn his head to see what the commotion was all about.

Maccus came charging at her, ready to stamp her head into the ground, and she rolled away, jumping to her feet and grabbing a capstan plank. He was almost upon her, and she swung the board right at his head, hitting him and sending him reeling, but just for a moment. She turned for the forecastle deck, eyeing the smaller of the two masts, and ran for it, but Maccus came too quickly and snatched her by the arm, flinging her in the opposite direction, back toward the quarterdeck. She groaned and rolled, and she heard him approaching, an infuriated rage in his breath, and she opened her eyes to dodge whatever he had next for her, when the doors to the captain's cabin burst open.

The sheer noise was enough to stop Maccus from pulverizing her right there, and Geneva sat up from the ground, her head still reeling, but attentive nonetheless. Jones came out of the darkness of the hallway which led back to his cabin, and stopped before them.

"I need to speak with this runt, if you don't mind," Jones spat sternly, glaring at the first mate, and Geneva smiled inwardly. Anything to knock that oaf off his self-made pedestal. Undoubtedly, Jones expected Maccus to be able to handle her without the least bit of trouble, and it was now quite obvious that she had been making things difficult for him.

Geneva stood up and brushed herself off, not bothering to even glance back at the first mate, who she could only imagine was giving her the ugliest glare he could muster. She followed the captain back into his cabin without a word, and she closed the doors behind them.

Jones walked over to his desk and looked at nothing in particular on it, likely thinking to himself. Geneva only stood and waited, looking about his cabin for the second time in her life. It was impossibly grand.

Suddenly, Jones was in front of her, holding a soggy, faded map of the Atlantic. "You claimed you were able to locate him," he said, emotionless and stern. "So I expect you to be able to do so. If not, I'll not hesitate to feed you to the Kraken."

"Aye, sir," she replied. That wasn't too tall of an order. She already knew who he was talking about. A smile snagged her lips. One glorious triumph after another.

"Point to him," Jones ordered, and without hesitation, she did. She knew the sea like it was her instinct. Finding Jack Sparrow in the midst of it was a joke.

"That's the Black Pearl," she said, and Jones pulled the map away, looking at where she had pointed. Then, without any indication as to what he was thinking, he put the map back on his desk and dismissed her, with orders to fetch Bootstrap from the orlop.

She stepped out of the cabin and out onto the deck, advancing with a victorious stride. As she rounded the corner to head for the stairs, Maccus appeared without warning, and before she could duck away, he had her in a tight chokehold.

"Don't think I was too stupid to be waitin' for ya', you rat!" he snarled at her, and she didn't have the air to respond, so she bit down on his slimy arm. He thrashed, and she broke free, facing him at the ready.

"I have orders!" she hissed at him, and he seethed with frustration, shaking his arm off where she'd bitten him.

"Well then," he growled, pissed as anything. "Ain't that bloody fuckin' convenient!" He made another grab for her, for he'd sure as hell teach her what for if she threw punches at him like that, but she had already bolted down the stairs ahead of him. He charged after her, but he let her go as soon as they'd made it down to the orlop again. He knew he couldn't catch up, and his right eye was killing him.

As she went off toward the lit side of the orlop, Maccus turned and headed for his cabin. It was a measly little cabin, not too far off from the stairs back upward. He opened the door gruffly and slammed

it shut behind him. He was surprised he didn't break it off its hinges. Never had she enraged him more than she had that night. She certainly had gotten more pompous as the weeks went on, and he was damn tired of it already. She'd been getting far too smart with him, way too bold, and he had perhaps been too lenient with her, but if she thought she could get away with punching him, she was sorely mistaken.

And, from what he'd overheard from her conversation with the captain, she had a rank. Jones was actually using her. That was something Maccus couldn't comprehend. He couldn't imagine why the captain would use her. She was a wicked trickster, a perjuring wench. She was the last person to trust on earth. Maccus would sooner trust the ocean to be calm for two consecutive hours. And yet, Jones had made use of her on his own, and she agreed to it without hesitation, as if she thought she had a choice.

She didn't have any choice. She didn't have any say in what she did aboard that ship. She was nothing. She didn't have a voice, she didn't have a valuable opinion. She was just another hand, and an annoying one at that. God, he hated her. She thought she ruled the roost simply because she didn't fight like a pansy anymore. And she made him show his temper.

He prided himself on his ability to control himself. He didn't need to erupt in anger to give out orders. The need to do so was a weakness, a flaw in force, a blemish in character. He never had to repeat himself around his subordinates. That was how it had always been. And then she came along, and decided that she'd defy his every word. And for what?

He was convinced that she did it on purpose. He knew she did. It was a fact, plain as day. She did all this just to get to his head, just like the con she was. And in that one moment in the orlop, it had worked. He had dared her to try and hit him, believing she wouldn't, but she threw him off and socked him right in the face. She knew she would be pulverized for it, and she shouldn't have expected anything less. Of course, she knew. She was doing it to get a reaction out of him. And she had.

It was the idea that she thought she could do as she pleased that really bothered him. She could not do as she pleased. This wasn't a free man's land. She was to do as she was told. She was a woman, and she was aboard a ship. She would follow every order to the grave, and he'd gladly escort her to the grave if she didn't, but he didn't know how to kill her, so he just beat her instead.

But it didn't stop her. It didn't even faze her. She could heal herself on the spot, and then she was up and at it again, tearing at him and pissing him off until he wanted to throw her off the boat and watch her drown. But he knew he couldn't do that, and he knew she wouldn't drown, so it wasn't at all satisfying.

He didn't understand it. He didn't understand how a woman could possess such barbaric behavior as she did, even in the face of a threat like him. He could break any man. He'd broken every hand on the Dutchman. It was his purpose. Where the bosun prided himself for cleaving flesh from bone with one stroke of the cat o' nines, Maccus was held in high regard for his mere force. His wrath was an art form. He enjoyed his work. Not a soul challenged him, and if they did, they'd pay for it with their own blood. He'd ripped tongues out of mouths. He'd severed limbs. He was not one to hurl empty threats. He would do it all. And still, in the face of all that, this seadog bitch had the gall to defy him.

He'd never seen anything like it. But he wasn't clueless. He knew what she was trying to do. She was trying to make herself of equal standing with a man, maybe even with him, simply by acting like one of the crew. She was only mirroring the action she saw out of the other mates. So far, she was succeeding in making herself a despicable laughing stock, a wild whore among monsters that would gladly strip her bare and take what they wanted from her, whilst she bit and tore at them and took a bite out of their fleshy, damnable arms, and with the bloody mass still in her slatternly jaw, she'd dub herself victorious. But she wouldn't be their equal, even after that. She could never be their equal.

She'd never reach that. Not like this. Maccus could see that easily. She couldn't possibly be so stupid to think that she would. She wasn't a man. How could she ever expect to be treated like one, in of all places? She had no trace of dignity left in her. She'd simply become a bumbling brute, and he couldn't stand it. It was dreadful. She was the legendary sea lioness, and she was acting like a savage, no better than the scum—which Maccus freely admitted—that the crew had become long ago.

It was too stupid for him to try and reason with, though. His eye hurt horribly. She'd tried for a spot on him that she knew would hurt, even if she was still weak. She had become stronger, but she wasn't strong enough to deliver a detrimental blow, and she wouldn't come too awfully close to it either, Maccus knew. She just wasn't built for it. Her frame was too small, and she never listened enough to bother doing any real good for herself. God, she never listened to a lick he said. It was all stupid.

He felt around his eye, and splashed it with some water, and then rubbed it. It didn't help, and he didn't know why he thought it would. He growled. He'd pound her guts through the floor tomorrow. All she had to do was ask for it.


	15. Chapter 15

An uneventful week passed. Geneva had to exercise exceptional caution. Her escape from the first mate had been a narrow one, and one false move would give him ample reason to tear her apart.

Keeping herself out of trouble wasn't too difficult. It was simply a matter of being extremely obedient until things cooled down again. So far, it had worked out rather well. But Maccus, being far from a fool, certainly kept her on her toes.

His eye had finally healed up from where she had socked him. She was still surprised at herself. She was gaining on him somewhat, and she liked the feeling. But just as quickly as it had happened, her victory blew away like dust in the wind, and she was back in the same, submissive situation all over again, left only to cower against the threat of pulverization.

But she laid off her mind games for a whole week. She was up bright and early every day, and she carried out the endless orders from dawn to dusk. She merely survived her training sessions with the oaf, and then she did it all over again the next day. But, despite the monotony of it all, she had every reason to be excited.

Her mind was racing, completely organized, ready for the next step. For the first time in months, she was beginning to gain back control over her life. The process was slow, but she was gaining momentum with each passing day. Her talk with Jones had only pushed things further.

Her intent was simple, and what had once seemed unreachable was now becoming obtainable. As a respected member of the crew on the rise, she could easily maneuver however she pleased, and when she finally gained a rank, a real rank, she would rid herself of the watchful eyes of the first mate. Without him, she was entirely free, and she would have full opportunity to make way for herself.

And so, it was the dawn of another day. Potential was on the horizon. Geneva took no time readying herself and exited her room, making her way up to the main deck. She was not the first one out there. A few other men were up and beginning their own work. Seeing that there was nothing in dire need of being done at the moment, she took up tending to the sails and inspecting the lines.

She was teeming with energy. But she soon found that none of that enthusiasm made it to the rest of her body. As soon as she went to haul her first line of the day, she realized how physically exhausted she was. She frowned. She could have slept for much longer than the allotted time, and she would have liked to. But the first mate would have had her head if she came out any later than she did today. It wasn't just his rules for her. Everyone on the  _Dutchman_ was held to the same expectations. But she sure didn't have to like it.

Certainly, she got more sleep than most of the crew. The men who had watch duty had even less than usual, and yet, somehow, she was the only one who seemed to be outwardly tired. Then again, she was the only one sparring daily. Upon second thought, that provided clear explanation.

Maccus' expectations of her were painfully high. Where she had only asked for help with sword fighting, he felt it necessary to teach her nearly every trade he believed her to be lacking in, down to each minute detail. According to his judgment, she was deficient in nearly everything, and that just made things even worse for her. His training wasn't at all general, and it was hardly a stroll. He worked her arse off. And not once was she congratulated on her improvement.

She would have accepted rigorous training with open arms if it were more organized. But Maccus completely lacked a sense of physical chronology. He threw her right into the fire, right into the heaviest training imaginable, and he never cut her any slack, both during training and her other chores. She couldn't go to sleep early or wake up late, and she had the same amount of strenuous labor as the rest of the crew on top of that. It had only been about two weeks since the start, and already her body was beginning to feel the consequences.

Tiredness had been a part of Geneva's life aboard the  _Dutchman_  ever since she boarded the ship though. Onboard, food was much more scarce, or at least the kind of food she could stomach. The crew had a horridly disgusting habit of eating anything that moved, no matter where they found it. Just the other day, she had witnessed Palifico pick a leech off the wall and devour it without a thought. That same day during lunch, right before her training was to begin, Maccus had yanked some kind of worm out from under his own skin and swallowed it. Geneva couldn't contain herself at the sight and vomited over the railing. Maccus only responded by chastising her for retching.

She supposed that vomiting hadn't done her any good though. She only had hardtack and water, rum if she was lucky enough to sneak a swig when Maccus wasn't watching. The crew had whatever they found to be edible, which expanded their available palette far beyond what she found to be tolerable, leaving her at near starvation.

Generally, she could handle not eating for a few weeks. She had done it out on the open ocean years ago. But now that she had physical demands, her energy couldn't keep up. She had no energy left to heal herself, and now, she was functioning and suffering as a helpless mortal would.

For a while, her tiredness seemed to come and go like the tide. She had hoped this was just another low. But the longer the day dragged on, the more she began to doubt it.

As more sailors came up from below, orders were given, and carried out. The rigorousness of their work seemed to follow a pattern. Geneva wasn't sure what caused this pattern, but it was there. Some days, the work was strenuous, and there was almost no time for breaks. Those were the times when they worked late into the night. And then, after some time, the load would taper off again. Now, it was beginning to lessen. She could sense it. Sometimes the pattern only followed the weather. But other times, Jones had them busy from dawn until dusk on a perfectly calm day. She supposed the pattern was up to Jones' mood.

But the captain was oddly passive. Even during their talk, he had gotten straight to the point. He didn't seem like much of a threat, but Geneva wouldn't let herself believe that. His eyes held too much intelligence. She knew he wasn't an idiot, so she couldn't be either. But, the more she thought about it, the more she realized he was doing much more to her than she realized. It was another problem to worry about. And that was exactly what he wanted. He was trying to tire her out.

But she wouldn't be fooled. He wouldn't stop her. She would outsmart him. She was made for that. And so, she trudged through all of it, the whole load on her shoulders.

Lunch came and went. As the workload tapered off, more free time became available. Up until the day she'd vomited, Maccus' instruction had been doing something for her. She was getting a bit stronger with each passing day, and her technique was becoming much better, even though she couldn't have imagined room for improvement at all. She supposed he'd been somewhat right about her before. But not completely by any means. She definitely had skill beforehand. He just happened to be exceptionally good at sword fighting. And any kind of fighting in general. And he also happened to be huge. So, the criticism wasn't exactly coming from the average man.

But ever since she'd gotten sick, everything seemed to go downhill. Her rations of hardtack never seemed to be enough, and she wouldn't even look at the leeches on the wall. She couldn't. But there was nothing else to eat. She looked across the ship. Maccus was working still. She didn't want to train. Something wasn't right in her body. She was starting to feel dizzy. Sometimes Maccus would choose not to spar with her, depending on his mood. Maybe if she hid, he'd forget.

So, she hid on the forecastle deck. There was nothing else to do exactly. She watched as the clouds made their way across the sky, darting away from the sun faster than it could set. She sniffed the air. There would be a storm, but not soon. She could feel it more than she could smell it. It was about a week off, maybe a little more.

She turned around and looked back across the ship, spying for the first mate. He was on the catwalk, and she ducked down so she couldn't be seen. Perhaps she could sneak down to the hold. He'd probably think to look for her there, but she was only looking to stall him. The sun would be setting in a couple of hours, and she could work with that.

She slunk to the starboard side of the ship, and snuck down the forecastle stairs to the main deck. She looked over her shoulder. Maccus wasn't watching. She turned back and continued, a little faster now, to the stairs down to the gun deck. She hurried down them, and as she got to the very bottom, Maccus appeared out of the opposite wall.

Geneva jumped, though only a little bit. She was still getting used to that. The crew was literally part of the ship. They could move throughout the ship—and throughout the ocean for that matter—however they pleased. And now, Maccus had caught her.

"What are you doing, slinkin' around?" Maccus growled at her. It was just her luck for him to be in a bad mood. She stood up straighter.

"I wasn't slinkin', sir," she objected, and Maccus let out a sudden, threatening rumble from deep in his throat. He was not in a good mood. She flinched at his breath.

"Get back up there," he ordered her, and she turned right around and went back up the stairs, Maccus following behind her.

"Get your sword out," he said as soon as she had reached the top, and she groaned.

"And none of that," Maccus snapped at her. "Or you'll be walloped."

Geneva rolled her eyes when he wasn't looking, but she didn't pull out her cutlass.

"I'm tired," she said, and Maccus gave her a look.

"Ain't we all?" he mocked her. Geneva grumbled.

"I think I'm in need of more sleep if I'm to train so hard," she bit back. Maccus pulled out his sword, ignoring her. She wasn't getting through to him. She frowned and furrowed her eyebrows.

"I'm not trainin' today," she said, finally putting her foot down. Suddenly, she saw Maccus' arm tense, longsword in hand. She grabbed the hilt of her cutlass, whipped it out, and blocked his blade. The swing was incredibly harsh, but she managed to throw it off. He came back at her again, and she dodged, scampering off to the other side of the boat. He didn't come after her straight away, and instead, he just walked over to where she had run.

"You don't always get to choose your fights," Maccus said, and Geneva supposed he was right, but this was hardly the time. She felt a bit lightheaded. Something was wrong. But how could she argue with that reasoning? It wasn't fair. He wasn't supposed to be reasonable.

"I'm tired," she repeated, a bit louder this time. It was true.

"Beauty sleep won't help you in the least," he replied, and she growled at him. Mockery was a free trade for him, but that wasn't the worst of it. She couldn't understand him. He dished it all out with a straight, ugly face, as if he didn't even enjoy it.

"When did you stop sleepin'?" she asked, hurling the insult right back at him. Unfortunately, Maccus didn't respond to insults either. He was far too thick-skinned to care.

"When did you start tryin'?" he questioned, and he swung at her. Geneva wasn't ready and dodged clumsily. Maccus scowled at her.

"Keep your guard up if you want to live," he snarled at her, and she ignored the urge to talk back. He swung again, and she dodged better, but her parry was less than good. The frustration was showing on his face.

"Follow through!" he ordered gruffly, and she stumbled backward, holding a hand up towards him to get him to stop.

"Look," she groaned, panting. "I'm not feelin' up to this." The boat was rocking way more than it normally did. She'd never felt like this before.

"Quit your gripin'," Maccus said, clearly becoming impatient with her. He wasn't looking for excuses. He wasn't the type to make excuses, so naturally, she couldn't be either. But she wasn't trying to make excuses. Everything was shifting underneath her.

He charged at her, and she tried to pull back, but she wasn't fast enough to dodge and she had to block. Her footing was off, and he came in too hard, and she lost her balance, tumbling backwards. She hit the ground hard and groaned. Maccus only looked down at her in disgust.

"Quit fightin' like a coward," he said. She could almost imagine the scowl etched across his face. He always scowled at her like that.

"Get up!" he snarled. She groaned and weakly complied. Her head was spinning. She was seeing flashes of black. She finally got herself balanced enough to stand, and right when she looked up and readied herself, Maccus swung.

She may as well have watched him swing at her. It all seemed to happen slowly, and yet all at once. Looking back on it, she would have been glad that she had her sword at the ready, otherwise he would have sliced her clean in half. One moment she was standing, and the next, she was rolling across the deck. All she knew was that it hurt, and her head was reeling. She was so dizzy, she couldn't even see. She felt awful. She could hear Maccus chastising her. She supposed he had a right. But she couldn't stand up. She was trying to. Her arms wouldn't move. She was paralyzed, and she didn't care. She closed her eyes, and everything became faint echoes, as if she was in an underwater cave. Her head pounded. She sighed at herself. She would never beat him.

* * *

 

Geneva didn't even bother to break his swing. She just took it, and the blow threw her across the boat, and she went rolling and rolling, dropping her sword in the process.

"The hell," Maccus muttered. Not anymore of this shit today.

When she stopped rolling, she was face down on the deck. It didn't even look right.

"What in God's name are you tryin' to pull?" he snapped at her, marching over to where she was lying. She didn't move at the sound of his voice.

"Get movin'!" he yelled at her, and when she didn't, he nudged her with his foot, although he wasn't sure why he expected her to get up. She had landed pretty hard, and the way she hit the deck almost looked like a dead body. But she couldn't die, so she wasn't dead.

He rolled her body over gruffly. Her eyes were closed. Maccus glared at her for a good while, nostrils flared in disgust. Her hair was an ugly mess, and so was her face. It wouldn't normally have bothered him how awful she looked. It really shouldn't have. But something in him really itched at the sight of grime and blood smeared across her face like grease.

He didn't know why it perturbed him. Too much had been frustrating him lately. It consumed him. He didn't understand it. He would have thought that being a woman, she would have endeavored to keep herself cleaner. Then he could have easily derided her for it. But she didn't keep herself clean. So he was forced to deride her for not keeping herself clean instead. It seemed backwards. Why would he chastise her for that?

Was it even right to say backwards? There was no backwards. Only forwards. But then again, that little shit sure was turning things upside-down for him. God, she made him so mad sometimes. She wanted everything to do with the crew. From the moment she got on the blasted ship, she wanted to do men's work. Jones had let her, for God knows why.

He grunted at her body. He couldn't just leave her there. She wasn't going to get up. Her neck was craned to one side, and her hair was everywhere. The navigator talked about her hair all the time. Maccus didn't know what he saw in it. It was as disgusting as an arse. It was so dirty it was hardly red anymore. It was nigh brown in some places. It almost looked more natural on her. Maybe it even made her look prettier, or maybe that was what the navigator liked so much.

Finally, he leaned down, grabbed her cutlass, and picked her up so she hung under his arm. Not too heavy either. He wondered how much she ate. Then he remembered she threw up the other day. That was it. He rolled his eyes at the thought. It wasn't his fault she was squeamish. Better to eat the worms than let them eat you.

He made it down to that little room she had claimed for herself and kicked open the door. There was a shitty nest of fabric scraps in the corner. He strode over and let her drop. She groaned a little when she hit the bed, but it was that kind of subconscious groan a body makes when it hits the ground, Maccus knew. He'd dropped enough bodies in his life to know that.

He dropped her cutlass right next to her and left her there for the night. The sun was already setting. Greenbeard offered to take watch, but Maccus told him to go to bed. He didn't have any sleep to lose anyway.

He'd been taking the shift a lot recently. He had begun to notice things while he was on watch duty. It was when he had time to himself, time when nobody, not even the captain, was watching. He had done the same old thing for years, but he'd never noticed things before. Like the way the ocean smelled. He'd always known it. He'd never cared.

Until now.

The more he took watch duty, the more he realized things. And that was something odd.

There were times when he didn't notice anything out of the ordinary. He would always notice  _ordinary_  things, like ships in the distance, dead bodies in the shadows during ship raids. But he never noticed things like the ocean breeze anymore. He never needed to notice them. They didn't matter.

But now, he could smell the salt. And he didn't know what to think of it. He just stared out into space at the whitecaps. Was it witchcraft? He didn't know what it was. And, when he started thinking about the ocean, he didn't stop there.

Like when Koleniko had been talking about her hair a few nights ago. Maccus only overheard. That greasy braid charmed the daylights out of him. Maccus couldn't understand. And for the first time, after decades of service next to that man, Maccus thought the navigator was an horny idiot.

Sure, he was had his head in all the wrong places. But Maccus had never seemed to pay attention. He didn't know why. How could he have missed that for all these years?

But the more he thought about it, the more he realized he was thinking. It was a dangerous thing to do. Maccus could feel it in his soul. That was why he waited until nightfall, kicked Greenbeard off his shift, and sat up there on the quarterdeck, all alone in the sea breeze, just so he could have time to think. He thought about things he'd never thought about before. He wondered why the navigator was always so hot and bothered all the time. The rum never helped his case. That man had done some questionable things, now that Maccus actually looked back upon it. Koleniko was younger than Maccus by a few years, maybe even a decade or so. The first mate could remember now, years ago. The crew was pillaging wreckage for survivors. Maccus searched around a mast, and there he was, on the ground, over a half dead, bloody man, trousers undone and inside his arse. He saw Maccus and stood up, put his dick back in his drawers, and stepped aside for his superior, and even asked him if he wanted a turn, to which Maccus only rolled his eyes and grumbled something incoherent before forgetting about it. But it wasn't the last time it happened.

Maccus hadn't thought too much of it at the time. He hadn't really cared. He'd always known in the back of his head that Koleniko was an oddity. But he simply  _didn't care_. He didn't derive an explanation. He didn't approach the navigator about it.

He was just…

Numb.

But as he thought about it now, he did care for some reason. Koleniko eyed the Sea Lioness like a hungry wolf. She was far from helpless though. And Koleniko wasn't an idiot. He wouldn't just charge in blindly. He could have killed her all those weeks ago when he'd first tried. He'd done it plenty of times before. Men, women, pirate wenches. He'd fuck them, and kill them while he was at it.

But  _she_  got away.

Maccus knew what Koleniko was doing. He'd always known. It wasn't a secret. Jones didn't care. So nobody cared. But that night, for some reason, it didn't sit well with him. He didn't like what he saw. So he gave her back her swords.

He didn't really know why he did it. He thought about that a lot too. She had blood all over her mouth. She looked completely mad. But her eyes were filled with this terror when he pinned her against the wall. He'd never seen anybody that close, that scared. Koleniko usually only tried to fuck half-dead people. But she was different.

He looked down at his hands. One was cold, slimy, and gray. The other was thin and looked like a lobster, with twitchy, pointed legs. He wasn't sure which one was more human anymore. He couldn't even recall what his hands used to look like. For a while, he had forgotten that his hands ever used to look any different. He still wasn't sure if they had.

He thought of her hands. They were dirty and brown and small, but underneath, they were fair and pink, warm even. He could see the blood in her body. Her neck curved up like a marble statue, and her jaw jutted outward to a deadly point, like an arrow. She couldn't be a man. She was too damn pretty even have a hope of being like the crew. She tried to make herself as ugly as they were, but the fact of it was, she could never make herself into a man by looking like one. She'd always look like a woman, just how she was, even if her face was caked with sweat and dirt and blood. She just couldn't change her face, not looking how it was. And she couldn't change how small she was. That would stay, no matter how strong she got.

A noise.

He looked up. Just a creak. The boat always creaked. He stopped thinking.


	16. Chapter 16

Geneva opened her eyes just a crack. The world was dark. It smelled musty. But the deck felt soft.

She turned her head, just a tad, and instantly she regretted it. All of a sudden, she was groggy and awake, and her head was pounding. She let out a groan. She'd never felt like shit before.

She opened her eyes more, and it was still too dark. She tried to sit up. She had no idea where she was. She wasn't on the deck. That was the last thing she remembered. Being face down on the deck.

But she felt fabric underneath her. She sat up fully and her boots hit a metal object and startled her. She fumbled around on the ground. It was a sword. She felt the hilt. Her cutlass.

Her boots were still on. She had slept in her boots? She never slept in her boots. She stood up in the darkness, and then slowly walked through the darkness, arms out in front of her, feeling her way through.

A door. She opened it. There was a dim, gray light coming down the hall. She stepped out. She had been in her room? She supposed she had.

She wandered through the gun deck, toward the stairs up. She didn't remember coming down the stairs at all. She surfaced on the main deck and just stood there. Palifico was up. Angler was stretching his arms up in the air. There were a couple murmurs below her on the stairs, and then it was quiet again. She sighed and stretched. She felt like she had slept forever. But she wasn't late.

She started to walk toward the rigging ties, but she stopped. Her head was throbbing. She winced. She didn't have the energy to stop the pain. Squinting, she trudged up the stairs to the catwalks and leaned over the railing. She stared at the water. Maybe she could snag a fish. She would eat that. She needed to eat something. She stepped back and looked across the side of the ship, for anything to catch a fish with. There was nothing.

Maccus came up the stairs to the quarterdeck, minding his own business. Geneva watched him. He would know how to catch a fish, wouldn't he? She didn't want to try and ask anyone else.

"Maccus," she called to him. He perked up and turned to face her direction. Seeing who it was that called his name, he scowled at her informality. She grimaced.

"Sir," she corrected herself. He rolled his eyes.

"What?" he grumbled. Geneva could see through him for half a second. If the light hit his face just right, he would flare his nostrils and bare his teeth in a bit of a twitch. Not a morning person. How ironic.

She glanced at the water and back at him expectantly, enough of a signal to beckon him over, to which he begrudgingly complied. As soon as he'd come over, she felt herself become suddenly intimidated, and she looked back down at the ocean. It must have been his size compared to her, but it didn't scare her. It just made her nearly forget how to talk for some reason.

"How does one get a fish?" she asked quickly. She was almost nervous, but she had no reason to be. She could have kicked herself. She felt a pain, which shocked her, but it quickly subsided when she felt how empty her stomach was. It was a nasty feeling. She almost felt sick.

"Harpoon it," he answered after a bit of thought. She finally summed up the courage to look at his face again.

"You got one?" she asked. Maccus rolled his eyes and trudged off to a store room, while Geneva stood by the railing and waited. That wasn't so bad. She didn't know why she'd become so nervous all of a sudden. He looked exactly like he always did. Ugly and scowling and pissing himself off just by looking at anything. That was Maccus.

Finally, he came back out, holding a spear with a line on it.

"This 'un is for big fish," he said, and he held it out to her. She took it, and held it for herself. It was big. She glanced over the railing. She could reach over it just fine, but she wanted higher ground to throw from. So, after tying the harpoon line to the balusters, she stood up on rail and scanned the water. Maccus grumbled audibly.

"You're gonna fall offa' that someday," he muttered at her, as if it would make her get down.

"I can see better from here," she replied, and she spotted a fish. She raised the harpoon, almost like Maccus had taught her to raise an ax, and then she threw. A miss. She huffed in frustration and pulled the spear back by the line, raised it again, and waited for another fish.

"You're not holdin' it right," came Maccus' voice. She lowered her arm and looked down at him.

"How?"

"You gotta balance it. Here. Give it here." He took the spear and gripped it in a few different places, weighing each spot. Then, it seemed he found it.

"Here," he said, handing it back to her, gripping it where she should hold it.

"That's the center of mass?" she asked, inspecting it for herself.

"Hell, I don't know."

"Well, that's what it's called. The center of mass."

Maccus said nothing and squinted at her. She gave him a surprised look. He really didn't have a clue what she was talking about.

"It's where you can balance it," she explained briefly. He didn't say a word, but he must have believed her.

She turned back to the waves again. Another fish was in sight. She raised the spear, steadied herself, and threw, but missed again. Now she was miffed.

"Let me do it," Maccus said gruffly as she was reeling in the line again. She grumbled. She wanted to do it. But she gave him the spear anyway. She probably should have watched the water. Maybe she could have learned something more valuable, like where to aim, or what angle to throw at. But she watched him out of the corner of her eye instead. He surveyed the water, skimming through it like he was suspicious of something, and then, she could see when he locked his sights on one. His breathing went real low, and he raised his huge arm back, and then he let the spear fly from his grasp, like it was in his blood, like he was born to do just that.

He reeled in the line, and pulled the still flopping fish on deck. It was big, about as long as Geneva's arm. It was still flopping around, blood seeping from the fresh wound in its side, and Maccus grabbed it by the tail and slammed it against the rail, stunning it, and then he pulled out his boarding ax and chopped its head clean off. He discarded the head and held up the rest of the fish to her.

"There," he said. The blood dripped out of its head and puddled on the deck. Geneva looked it up and down hesitantly. It was huge.

"I can't eat all of that," she squeaked. He made a face.

"You take half of it," she suggested quickly. "You caught it."

He gave her an odd side-glance, but he picked up his ax again and chopped it right in half and gave her the bloodied mid-section. She took it, but she could only stare at it. She didn't know what to do with it.

"How do you eat this?" she asked dumbfoundedly. He wiped the blood off his ax and put it back at his waist.

"You bite out of it and chew," he replied simply, and took a good gander at the tail end of the fish before ripping off a whole mouthful of it, juices dripping grotesquely down his face. Geneva cringed and let out a disgusted noise.

"An' don't you vomit again," he warned, wiping off some blood from his face before inspecting the fish for his next bite. Geneva squinted.

"You're not making it easy," she grumbled uncomfortably. She looked down at her portion of fish. It was just soaked with blood, and it smelled.

"You don't cook it?" she asked timidly. Maccus was already halfway through his, cleaning off the harpoon as he went along. He gave her a perturbed look.

"Are you sure this is okay to eat raw?" she continued.

"Just eat it," he snapped at her, and she huffed at him and looked down at the fish. It didn't look any better. Maccus groaned in annoyance.

"Either you eat that fish or you start eatin' the grub on the walls," he growled at her, and she looked up at him in shocked disgust.

"No!" she shrieked awfully, and Maccus stepped toward her, ugly forearm outstretched.

"Here, you can pick out the worms for me!" he sneered, and she screeched and jumped backward, away from him.

"Get back! No!" she hollered crazily. "I'm eatin' it! _God!_ " She took a huge, careless bite out of one end of her fish, and with it still in her teeth, she pointed at the fleshy mass to prove it. " _See?!_ "

Maccus rolled his eyes, nigh amused, but his face returned to being perturbed as usual.

"Don't eat the bones," he sighed lowly, chewing some and spitting out a few of his own. She slowly opened her jaw and let the chunk fall out of her mouth and into her hand, inspecting it sheepishly. Maccus wasn't paying attention anymore though. He finished cleaning the harpoon and put it back in the store room. When he came back out, he'd finished his half of the fish entirely, and threw the bones overboard. She looked up at him. He wasn't looking at her.

"Sir," she began, and her voice caught in her throat. Was it really that strange?

He turned and looked in her direction, just with his normal expression. She glanced at the fish, and back at him again.

"Thank you," she mumbled. She couldn't get it to come out any louder. She hadn't even expected herself to say such a thing. Maccus' face curled into a troubled glower, and he looked away, as if he was trying to remember how to be nasty toward her.

"Get to work," he snarled finally, although it seemed a bit forced. But she went off anyway, nibbling at her fish every so often. It really didn't taste as bad as she thought it would. She'd always had cooked fish, but Maccus seemed to know what he was doing, so she supposed it must have been alright to eat it raw. Besides, it was better than trying to live off soggy hardtack.

She worked through the morning, and finished the rest of her fish well before lunch, throwing the remains back into the ocean. When the hour rolled around, work stopped and the quartermaster came around with hardtack rations. She got hers and ate it. It was a slow day.

She stared at nothing in particular while she chewed. Maccus didn't seem like he was going to spar with her that day. Perhaps he knew. He had threatened to force her to eat, so he must have known why she passed out yesterday. Maybe that was how she got back to her room. He might have brought her there. She didn't know. It all just made her feel strange.

She sat there and waited to see if he called her over after lunch, but he didn't. She didn't mind. She went back to staring, and her mind wandered again. Of anyone aboard the ship, she supposed Maccus was really the only one she could even stand being around. There were moments when they abhorred the sight and sound of each other, but that might have been natural. They had their skirmishes every so often. But on calm days like this, he was tolerable, or at least more tolerable than he usually was. Maybe he wasn't so bad.

Geneva let her thoughts drift off as she stared into the blue of the sky. There were only a few stray clouds that day. It was becoming unbelievably hot. A few clumps of hair were starting to stick to her neck, and she pushed them away. After a few tries, she decided that she had to redo her hair. She usually had to fix it up every couple of days. It was a becoming a bit of a hassle now, and she was growing tired of it, but she didn't know what else to do with it.

She stood up and dumped her hair down in front of her, and braided it again. The plait actually held better when she didn't wash her hair. The grimier it was, the easier it stuck in the braid. She didn't even have to tie the end off because it just stuck there on its own with all the filth it housed. She didn't bother to think about how dirty it was anymore. Nobody really seemed to care how her hair looked anyway. The crew didn't look any better.

She finished braiding and leaned against the railing, staring blankly across the ship at nothing in particular. Then, it came time to go back to work. Geneva headed back to hauling lines and passing time. The seas were relatively calm, and nothing was really happening. They were just sitting in the middle of the ocean.

"Whore," she heard a voice say, and she went cold. She almost shivered. She didn't want to look. But it did no good.

"Hey, I'm talkin' to you, cunt," he said again. She put her hand on the hilt of her sword and turned. The navigator stood there, just looking at her like some scrap. But he noticed her hand on her sword, and got to business.

"The captain wants to see you up by the helm," he stated, and she said nothing to him and walked right past him to the stairs. She heard him follow, and she gripped her cutlass harder, but she didn't pull it out just yet. She would be ready though.

She climbed the quarterdeck stairs and made her way over to the helm. The captain was just off to the side, looking at a map, while Maccus was manning the wheel. She didn't pay too much mind to the first mate, but she could feel the atmosphere tense up. It had to be him. She could feel vibes, and when Maccus got pissed, it was easy to tell. The only hard part was figuring out why.

Jones looked up from the map when she approached, and addressed her.

"Point to the wreckage of the _Black Pearl_ ," he demanded. But something was off. Geneva made a curious face at the question.

"Wreckage?" she said with a confused expression, and that caught the captain's attention. "Don't know if I would deem that wreckage, but alright. Somewhere in that area. Why?"

"Ol' Bootstrap gave Sparrow the black spot about a week ago," Koleniko said from beside her. She didn't bother to listen to the tone he used with her; she just absorbed the information. "The Kraken hunts and kills anyone marked with the black spot." His voice trailed off and got real airy, and she saw his hand brush the end of her braid. She swiftly pulled it to the other side of her head.

" _And?_ " she pushed, eyes narrowed dangerously at him. A sultry grin tugged at his lips, and there was amusement in his eyes.

"Sparrow's still alive," the navigator went on, eyeing her up and down, tickled by her aggression, but Geneva's mind was elsewhere. She understood now. The Kraken destroyed ships, and it was out to destroy the _Black Pearl_. If she could locate the _Pearl_ , that meant the Kraken hadn't destroyed it yet, even though it had already been a week. And, that meant Jones was losing patience.

"Where is he right now?" Jones growled, and she sighed.

"He was generally south of Isla de Pelegostos when you first asked me," she replied. Jones paused to think. But Geneva was curious.

"The black spot," she went on. "Does Sparrow know what it means?"

"Bootstrap was to make it quite clear," Jones replied. "Thirteen years have passed. His debt to me is due to be satisfied."

"Well, it's my guess he went ashore, tail between his legs," Geneva mused, shaking her head. "The Kraken would scare anybody off the seas." She narrowed her eyes some as Jones thought to himself. She stepped toward the rail and looked out over the ship. Suddenly, she got an idea, and she turned back to the captain.

"You know what I bet he did?" she chuckled, grinning darkly. "He went to the closest land he could find. Got out of the ocean, fast as he could." She laughed to herself and faced the ship again. "I wouldn't worry too much, _captain._ If you wanted him dead, he should be in a matter of days. The Pelegostos have impeccable hospitality." She turned around and faced Jones, who was watching her. She sighed. She would have to explain.

"They tend to eat their guests," she added simply. Jones narrowed his eyes thoughtfully again, and then he picked up the map and shoved it at Koleniko.

"Chart a course to Isla de Pelegostos," he ordered the navigator, before glaring darkly at Geneva. "I want to be sure of that fate."

With that, the captain left the quarterdeck, leaving Geneva without any further orders. She smiled internally. This game with Jones was a difficult one. But reverse psychology tended to do the trick for him.

Koleniko got a heading, and the sails were opened. With no real work to do, Geneva sat on the quarterdeck steps and watched the lines get jostled in the wind. She could sense the storm in the distance, but it was still a few days off. Part of her wished it would come, if only to cool off the air. Maybe it would give the crew something to do.

They day dragged on and on. It never seemed to end. She could have found more amusement in seeing if she could drown. Some of the men took to playing liar's dice. She had seen them do it in the orlop before, but she never really paid attention. There was nothing better to do though. It was the only point of amusement on the whole ship.

It took watching a few games, but Geneva figured it out. It might have been fun to try it if she had anything she was willing to wager off, but the men were only interested in wagering years, and she hadn't sworn an oath, so she had nothing. There was no guarantee of winning either. It was all based on probability, and the odds were only in your favor if you made a smart guess. Essentially, it was a game of chance. You could only win if you were lucky, and you were lucky if you were right. She didn't like making those kinds of decisions. She liked things that she could predict—things that she was at least partially sure of. This game forced the players to make nearly blind guesses, and she wasn't about to wager servitude for a lousy game of dice.

Finally, since there was nothing happening, the crew retired early, and they all began to gravitate toward the stairs down to the lower decks. Geneva wasn't sure what more there'd be for her in the orlop, but she supposed there wasn't anything keeping her on the upper decks. Greenbeard had already taken his position at the helm for watch, and everyone else had already left the main deck for the most part.

She stood from her seat on the quarterdeck and followed the rest of the men down the stairs, trailing behind the last string of them, and only followed by one other man. She just stared at the backs of their grotesque heads. There would be nothing amusing in the orlop. Maccus wouldn't let her drink, not that it would be any fun. She was so incredibly bored with the mulling sameness aboard the ship, though. How could she expect it all to change? Perhaps she was asking too much of such mundane men.

But, it was possible she was asking the wrong question. How could she expect this dull existence to change all on its own? It was a thrilling idea. Maccus would kill her. He really would kill her. But it seemed that she had the most fun when she sabotaged these men's lives with an act of sheer, outlandish madness. That was it. It was time to disturb the peace.

She'd seen gobs of tavern fights when she was in Tortuga. Certainly, those started much more easily because all the men were drunk. But if she could start a mob of a fight? That would be splendid. Maccus would have a cow. It was brilliant. She was absolutely sure about this. She felt good. She'd had all day to recover from her fainting episode yesterday, and she felt completely prepared. The first mate had taught her plenty. So, without any further hesitation, as the man in front of her began down the stairs to the orlop, she shoved him.

He quickly lost his balance and tumbled down the stairs, taking out another man in his path. They didn't land too hard, but they were definitely dazed and certainly miffed about it. She smiled and giggled just a little.

"My apologies," she laughed heartily. "I wanted to see if gravity really existed." The man behind her didn't find it to be at all amusing, though.

"You tryin' to start a fight?" he snarled at her, about ready to grab her hair, and she ducked out of the way and socked him in the nose.

"An' what'll you do about it, you lousy cockroach?" she taunted, and the ugly oaf swung at her, but she dodged and grabbed his arm, and they both lost their balance on the stairs.

Maccus heard a second ruckus. He was already leaning out his cabin door, confusedly watching the two groaning men at the bottom of the stairs, just a few paces from his door, wondering what in the world had happened. Certainly, people fell down the stairs occasionally, but this just seemed out of place.

Just then, Geneva and another man came tumbling down the stairs after them, arms locked on each other. Maccus stared at the pile of men in complete disbelief. She couldn't be serious. He seethed in frustration, much more than what was probably healthy, and then swore under his breath, mainly at Geneva. This was just more of her nonsense.

Geneva was swinging and swinging, just laying it on the man underneath her. She couldn't believe how invigorating this was. He was just strong enough to give her a challenge, and he swung back and hit her in the jaw, which sent her reeling a bit. She recovered and elbowed another man in the gut, and he fell backwards with the blow, and then she tore at another man's face who go too close. One was dragging another across the floor, and a third came and joined the fight. One grabbed for Geneva's face in the whirl and excitement. His face was horrific. It was hardly a face. She grabbed the coral attached to his shoulders and punched a cyst looking bump on his face, and he roared and scraped her arm, and she kicked his knee.

Suddenly, Maccus was upon them, and he yanked them apart.

"Knock it off!" he growled at them both, looking first at the man, and then, right as he turned his head to chastise Geneva, she punched him square in the jaw.

Maccus groaned from the blow, and silently cursed himself for teaching her how to fight, before turning back toward her and glaring down at her menacingly. But, much to his surprise, she wasn't at all fazed by this. In fact, she was laughing at him.

"Oh, you find that funny?" Maccus snarled at her, literally throwing the other man aside in order to free his arm to retaliate. He swung right at her face. She barely ducked, coming back up swiftly to uppercut him. He hadn't let go of her tunic collar, but his grip loosened as he reeled some from the impact. He _really_ shouldn't have taught her how to punch that hard. He was regretting it now. But that meant he could really lay it on her himself.

He jumped back in and grabbed her tightly by the scalp, and she screeched in anger, unable to get free of his grip. The more she struggled, the more it hurt, and so she was trapped, and she began to tear at his face with her hands. He roared at her in response, unable to see, but he stumbled and fell backwards, and she fell right along with him. His handgrip weakened and she recovered fast, jumping loose. She started swinging right at his face, and he caught her fists and overpowered her, gruffly slamming her to the wood floor. She yelped and he brought his arm back to punch her face in, and when he brought it down, she somehow craned her neck and dodged it. He was about to completely whale on her until she brought her leg up and nailed him in between the legs.

His breath caught in his windpipe, and his eyes widened at the rush of throbbing pain, a choked off groan stuck in his throat. She took in a sharp breath and narrowed her eyes at him, and before he could even move, she punched him hard in the nose, and a pained grunt escaped him. She quickly escaped from underneath him and stood herself up again, leaving him doubled over, unable to stand just yet.

She huffed a breath of prideful amusement. "That's what you get for throwin' me around," she said, rubbing her bruised jaw to get it to heal faster. She looked about. The fighting had pretty much ceased. She turned straight around and sauntered back up the stairs to the gun deck, headed for her room. That was enough entertainment for one night.

Maccus had to sit there for a while to pull himself together again. He had decided, while hunched over on all fours, that he wouldn't bother pursuing Geneva. She'd won that round, but he could come back full force with her, and it was better to do so when she least expected. At least that was the excuse he made.

Finally, groaning and complaining to himself, he stood up again, carefully shifting his testicles without killing himself again. Then, after convincing himself once again that chasing after her wouldn't be worth it, he begrudgingly made his way back to his cabin to stop the blood that was dripping out of his nose.

He kicked open his door and found some old rags and shoved them up his nose. Somewhere in there he had a canteen of rum. He lit his shitty lantern with one hand and held the bloody cloth to his nose with the other. The canteen was on the floor, nearly under his cot. He licked the match to put it out, pulled the cap off with his teeth, and took a long, healthy swig. That took the whole canteen. He threw it across the room and sighed.

"Damn it."

She'd definitely become much stronger. But she was also becoming much dumber, and Maccus couldn't ignore that. She just acted however she liked, no thought to consequence anymore. She thought she was king of the hill now that she could fight better. Well, he had news for her: she wasn't, and he could easily remind her of that. She sorely needed reminding. He'd been too easy on her. Maybe he'd even been kind to her. But he would have to crack down again. It was for her own good.

It really did annoy him more than it should have, though. The idea that the lass practically thought herself a man. She wasn't; not by any means. She just wasn't, and it was beyond irksome whenever she decided that she'd parade herself about like a man, trying to get the whole lot of the crew to forget that she was a woman.

He didn't get it, but he didn't have to in order to deal with it. He'd fix her, and he'd fix her good. He was going to teach her exactly where that kind of lip would get her. It seemed that after only a week, she had forgotten what her outbursts cost. She'd gotten away with far too much just now, and it was high time she woke up. Maccus was good at doing that: utterly ruining cocky people. He couldn't wait. The past couple decades of his life were animated solely by pulling people's heads out of their own arses.

But this was no joke to him. This was something she desperately needed. Maccus knew. If she wanted to act like a man, if she wanted to be treated like a man, then she would have to be reminded of exactly what happened to a man who acted like she did. Those kinds of men did not make it far.

It was a stupid notion, but he didn't want to break her. There was something in her, something hidden that was clawing to get out. He could feel it. She wanted to prove herself. She was fighting everything, at every direction. And she would win.


	17. Chapter 17

It had been a few days since the _Dutchman_ set sail for the oceans near Isla de Pelegostos. Geneva's awareness of the approaching storm only heightened. They were headed right into it. She grumbled at the notion. Only a few days ago, she had wished for the storm to come, if it only gave the crew some kind of work to do. Now she was regretting it. She didn't like storms all that much. But there was no avoiding it now. The waters were already beginning to look rougher.

The _Dutchman_ didn't go to Isla de Pelegostos by any means. In fact, they didn't even go near it. Geneva never saw the island. Instead, Jones had them lurk.

Lurking wasn't all too awful. But it meant that anytime a ship was spotted on the horizon, they would summon the Kraken, hysterical as a bunch of monkeys with sticks up their arses. There was _that_ little to do. Geneva was beginning to understand why the men found killing to be so entertaining. Not that she found it entertaining herself, but they really didn't have anything better to do.

So, they just prowled about for a while. Jones was waiting to spot the _Pearl_ , Geneva knew. But she couldn't quite sense it. She could sense it a little bit, enough to know that it was around, but not enough to pinpoint it exactly like she normally could.

The second day lurking wasn't all that fruitful. There weren't too many ships around to destroy (much to the crew's dismay). So, they spent most of their time waiting around, just watching the horizon, searching, practically hoping to see a ship. At this point, even Geneva hoped to see a ship. She was bored out of her mind, and Maccus would surely beat her to death if she started another fight. She didn't really feel like causing too much trouble.

She did sense something interesting though. She got the feeling that she was waiting for something. She only got this feeling every once in awhile, but it was like she was waiting for something familiar. She didn't know what it was, but it made her all the more impatient for it to appear.

The feeling only heightened as the sun began to set. She had her mind completely set on it. She didn't understand what it was, and it was driving her insane. The crew was rather bored now, but she was completely antsy. She'd rush to one side of the boat and scan the horizon, and then she'd try to pinpoint the feeling, and she'd rush to the other side. But she couldn't place it. Some of the men would murmur of the emptiness of the sea, the boredom of it all, and a few would tell her to sit her arse down and quit pacing. But she'd tell them there was something out there. She could feel it. Sometimes they'd laugh at her, and sometimes they would just shrug. A choice few would glance out to the open ocean, watching hopefully for a moment or two, and then they'd turn back to their game of liar's dice.

But as the sun began to dip below the ocean, the silhouette of a ship could be seen on the horizon. Geneva was the first to spot it. Her anticipation only heightened, and she didn't know why, but she didn't hesitate passing word that there was a ship. From the quarterdeck, Jones looked at the ship through his telescope, and then, with a nod from the captain, the first mate gave the order to ready the capstan.

Geneva didn't bother arguing with the practices of the crew anymore. There was nothing moral about what they did. It was their job to do as they were told, and that was it. If Jones wanted to summon the Kraken on a ship, he didn't have to give a reason. The crew would do it, regardless of reason. It was lowly, unthinking, and unbecoming, but it was how the ship worked, and Geneva had come to accept that.

So when the order was given, Geneva carried it out just like she would any other order. She didn't think twice about it. She didn't know why. But she didn't bother thinking about that anymore. Lashes weren't worth the trouble of thinking.

The capstan was raised, and then it dropped. The shock wave flew through the ocean. Geneva could feel it for miles. And yet, the Kraken was nearby. She could sense that, too. In a matter of minutes, it had attacked, and was pulling the silhouette to its watery grave. Geneva could watch that process. It was something that intrigued her, only very slightly, simply because she'd never really seen it before. Many sailors didn't live to see that anyway.

By the time the Kraken had pulled most of the ship below the waves, the sun had already set, and twilight stretched in a thick, deepening strip across the sky. The sea was black now. Darkness engulfed the sky. But orders were fresh and flying across the ship.

"All hands! Goin' down!" Maccus roared from behind the wheel, his voice carrying. She could have heard it for miles. She bolted across the deck and up to the quarterdeck, trying to reach the highest point she could on the ship. She could save herself the expense of drowning this time.

"You!" she heard Maccus shout at her, above the commotion on the main deck. She stopped and turned to look at him quickly, adrenalin racing through her body. Her mind was elsewhere. But Jones' eyes were on her too.

"It's my understanding that Maccus has been teaching you on the practices of the crew," Jones said to her plainly. "You'll make yourself useful this time and go with them to round up survivors."

It was quite clear she had no choice in the matter. She was dispensable enough that Jones could throw her overboard if she didn't comply. But she hesitated.

"How am I going to get there?" she asked him, shouting to be heard above the noise of the sea. The waters were getting worse.

Jones looked at Maccus, a tiny glimpse of a smile on his face. Maccus grinned, showing off his hideous shark-toothed smile. The captain turned back to her, his eyes flickering with amusement.

"Swim, perhaps?" he chuckled, and Maccus laughed as well. Then, without further explanation, Jones promptly turned and left the quarterdeck. Geneva was overwhelmed. Now she had to figure out how to board?!

She could waste no more time. The ship would be submerging soon. She looked about wildly. There was no way she could just teleport like the rest of the crew. She really couldn't describe it any other way. The crew just teleported. But she wasn't part of the crew. She was going to have to swim, and she couldn't just jump out of the boat now. The wreckage was way too far off. She'd never make it. She would have to figure out how to do this, and _fast_.

She looked at the western horizon. She could barely see the wreckage off in the distance. It was some ways off. She looked at the masts. If she climbed to the top of one, she could hold her breath for longer. When the _Dutchman_ submerged, she could hang on until she was close enough, and then she could swim to the surface before the ship reemerged from the water.

Now she had a plan.

She rushed to the main mast, the tallest mast of all of them, and scrambled up. She could feel the rains coming. They were uncomfortably close. The waves were roaring. She could barely hear herself think. It made her anxious, like she was preparing for a surprise attack she could feel coming, but she didn't know when. All she could do was anticipate. But she was overwhelmed by another feeling as well, the one she had been getting before. She didn't know what it meant, but she recognized it a little. She just couldn't place it.

She climbed all the way to the top of the mast. The wind was tempestuous. Her hair flailed about horridly, and she looked down the shredded sails at the ship below. It was dipping forward, at a nightmarish angle, down and down into the blackness of the depths. She took the fullest breath she could muster, and suddenly came the rush of water.

She clung onto the mast, legs wrapped around the highest yard. Water flew past her. But she could feel the ship's speed multiply. She felt where the wreckage was, and she focused on it. It was coming. She would make it. She just had to hold her breath. She could make it. All she had to do was stay calm.

The wreckage was close enough now. She let go of the mast and pushed off, propelling herself out into the open deep. She swam upward, up and up until she finally surfaced, gasping for breath. Then, she started swimming as hard and as fast as she could.

She finally made it over, but by that time, the crew was already aboard, rounding up the last few survivors. Geneva didn't have the breath to grumble to herself. Part of her wondered why Jones had even bothered to make her come along. By the time she got there, the work was already half finished. It was pointless for her to even try.

She reached the side of the broken deck and pulled herself on, and suddenly, her clothes became heavy with the weight of the water. She stumbled aboard, and as she stood up and tried to look around, she had to shove her grimy hair out of her face. She scowled. It was really starting to get in the way. And now it wouldn't stick in a braid for a good few days, maybe a whole week. She cursed her hair and shoved it out of the way again, more violently this time. It was getting to be too cumbersome to even bother with.

Once it was out of her face, she could look about. Most of the higher-ranking crew members were there, and the survivors of the Kraken's attack were forced into waiting on their knees, just as she had been when she was first captured. She was too tired to look at them, though. The swim there had been taxing, and now all of her clothing was as heavy as bricks, soaked to their complete capacity. Geneva huffed. This was not at all practical.

Her tunic was sticking to her breasts as well, which only made her more uncomfortable for some reason. She may as well have not worn a shirt. She wasn't exactly self-conscious, but she was slightly conscious around certain people, such as the navigator. And anybody else that even looked at her. She snuck away to another part of the wreckage and started wringing out her clothes and hair, trying to fix herself up some. It was all a mess, and it was just weighing her down. It was the kind of thing she wished she could just shrug off—the clothes, her hair, worrying about where her tunic stuck to her, hiding away until she felt more comfortable—it all had to go. But she was stuck right now.

She heard Jones' voice and glanced over toward where business was being conducted, still wringing out her clothes rather fruitlessly. The captain was smoking his pipe and speaking to one of them. Jones had a way with words. Unlike Barbossa, Jones used his words to inspire guilt in victims. He used mens' sinful natures against them and twisted the truth. He advertised that life aboard the _Dutchman_ was a necessary price to pay. It was all about postponing the Judgement Day. He manipulated these dying men with their own circumstances and their fear of death. Geneva turned away and minded her own business, continuing to try and dry herself off. She hated being this soaked.

But, as she was wringing out her shirt, about ready to rip it in half, she heard a voice. It was just a mutter, and she barely heard it, but she stopped nonetheless, and instantly, the feeling of anticipation heightened. She knew that voice. She could have sworn. She searched through her soul, all those bonds she'd made so long ago.

Then, she heard it again.

" _Jack Sparrow? Sent me to settle his debt?"_

She froze.

She whirled looked at where Jones was, and suddenly, a good three-fourths of the crew was gone, including the captain. She would have wondered, but one of the kneeling men caught her eye.

Suddenly, with a knowing smile, everything made sense to her.

"William Turner," Geneva said, the name rolling off her tongue perfectly as she approached his hunched form. The young man perked up at his name, and he looked in her direction. His dark hair was curled and messy, longer now. His features had matured, and he was now sporting a small, well-trimmed beard. He recognized her, and his eyes widened.

"What are _you_ doing here?" he asked her, completely bewildered by her presence. Geneva laughed and leaned down toward him.

"What am _I_ doin' here?" she repeated, grinning in amusement, but in her eyes there was a deadly, searing fire. "I could ask you the same question. It probably has the same answer."

He squinted at her. "What do you mean?" he asked purposefully. He had picked up on her hint. He had every reason to be suspicious now. Geneva smiled crookedly.

"Let me put it this way," she said, smiling thoughtfully, her voice low. "Why are you here, and not Jack?"

It all connected. She could see it written across his face. Geneva stood up straight again, but his eyes stayed low and distrustful.

"Why did he send you here?" she asked. She was curious. There was something else involved here.

Will glanced up at her, still wary. He wasn't planning on telling her the real reason. How far their connection had waned.

"To settle his debt with Davy Jones," he spat lowly, simply at the thought of Sparrow. "Whatever that may be." Geneva sighed and rolled her eyes. She had been patient for long enough. She pulled out her cutlass and pointed it at his neck faster than he could form another thought.

"I'm going to be very frank with you, Mister Turner," she said, speaking lowly so that the crew wouldn't hear her. "You have no reason, nor will you gain anything by lying to me. Do not think me a fool. I've already imprinted on you, so if I really wanted to know the truth, I could just read you like a book. So you may as well trust me."

He did not say a word, but he was listening very intently. But, just as she was about to expand upon her point, the crew came back to the wreckage. She stepped away from him as if nothing had ever happened, and she was about to head back to the more secluded side of the ship when she ran right into Maccus.

"What was you sayin' to him?" he demanded lowly. She was unfazed by his voice.

"What's it to you?" she questioned. He growled and pulled her close.

"I may be stupid, but I ain't a fool," he snarled at her accusingly, teeth bared. "I know conniving when I sees it."

"Relax," she spat, shrugging off his grip and smiling coyly with her eyes. "I was jus' sayin' hello. He's an old friend."

She walked back to the secluded area of the wreckage, and Maccus let her go. But she had so much knowledge now. Being aboard the _Dutchman_ for all this time had really cut off her senses. She could sense things on the ocean, but when it came to people, her bonds had been waning. She could barely sense anything. And she was starting to realize that the less she used her powers, the fainter her connections became over time.

But now that Will was back in the mix, things were looking up. She now had an unmistakable ally, or even better—a pawn, and with this advancement she had an even bigger chance of getting off the _Dutchman_. All she had to do was figure out what Will was up to and move accordingly.

"Quit doddlin' and let's go," came Maccus' bearish voice, knocking her abruptly out of her thoughts. She turned and looked at him, not overly offended, but a bit annoyed.

"How am I supposed to ford that?" she questioned him, rather nastily thrusting her arm out toward the open sea between the wreckage and the _Dutchman_ , which was floating across the way. "You expect me to swim again?"

Maccus squinted at her in disgust, and then he approached her. She tensed up in preparation for whatever he was planning to do, ready to fight back. She saw his hand raise, and she hissed and tried to block him, but he whacked her on the head, and suddenly, she couldn't see much, but she could hear, and she was still half-awake. She wanted so badly to yell at him, but she couldn't speak either. She felt his shoulder digging into her stomach, but she couldn't hit him or kick him for it.

Suddenly, she felt as though she was moving as fast as a bat out of hell, but only for a cold instant. Then, everything abruptly stopped and slammed right into her, and she was suddenly falling. She landed hard on the deck, right on her arse, and when she gathered her bearings enough to look up angrily at Maccus, she suddenly realized she was aboard the _Dutchman_. Maccus was standing above her, scowling down at her.

She completely lost it.

"What the bloody Hell was that?!" she yelled at him, wholly discombobulated.

"You watch your tongue," he snarled menacingly at her, reaching down to grab her at the same time as she was struggling stand up to better complain. She squirmed and pulled away from his grip, her shirt sopping wet as if she'd just been in the water.

"What was that?!" she howled at him again, shoving her hair out of her face for the second time. God, she hated her hair.

"I brought you over here!" he thundered back, practically beside himself, he was so angry. His head could have burst. The silly thing was, though, it was hardly the least bit serious. It was the pettiest of things, only a simplistic misunderstanding.

"You can do that?!" she yelped at him, and he stopped for a moment, giving her a confused look before realizing he'd misinterpreted her intent. He'd forgotten she'd never teleported before, and now she was disoriented and confused.

"What in God's name is wrong with you?" he asked her finally, too confused now to even chastise her. He rolled his eyes when she gave him a look, and he turned away to take care of other business, but she wasn't quite settled at that, and she shoved him, just asking for a fight. He whirled around and made a threatening pose, and straight away she retreated, but he went after her, and she screeched as she ran, Maccus tearing after her. She hurled herself down the steps and then down further, and he thundered after her, chasing her down into the orlop, into the lit area. Nobody was down there, and she tore through the room, knocking over barrels and crates to slow him down. He cleared them easily and gained on her, and she turned sharply into another room, an old kitchen with a rugged, slimy worktable in the middle. She ran to the opposite side and faced him, cornered. She moved back and forth, trying to trick him into coming around one side so she could escape, but he wouldn't fall for it. Her eyes were on fire. He could see it in her, this untamable nature, unlike anything he'd seen in her before. It only spurred him harder. He overturned the table and lunged for her, and she narrowly dodged him and ran out the door behind him, and he whipped around and went after her, hot on her tail. She wouldn't get away this time.

She tore back up the stairs, bounding up like a deer, predator at her heels, and he grabbed her on the last stretch of stairs, right around the waist, and pulled her backwards, tumbling down, and she howled as they both rolled down the stairs, crashing at the bottom. She squirmed in his grip and elbowed him, thrashing hard, but he contained her with a good effort. She was wild as a lion, screaming in protest, and clawing to get free, until she had completely tired herself out. Maccus was doing nothing at this point except holding her still, waiting for her to exhaust herself. There was no way she could beat him when he had her in such a tight hold.

Finally, she just went limp and sat there, surrendered, practically waiting for him to beat her for cursing and picking a fight. The stupid thing was, she knew exactly where being aggressive with him would get her, and yet she still persisted. Maccus couldn't imagine what she thought she'd gain from it all. She couldn't win.

"Are you done?" he snapped at her. She was facing away from him, and he was now on his side on the floor, holding her still. She groaned at him lowly, which he read as affirmative.

"About damn time," he growled at her, finally standing up and pulling her up with him, his arm still forcefully holding her back against his chest. Once he'd stood himself up, he gruffly released her, and she yanked herself away from him, glaring daggers and hissing at him defensively. She was truly like an animal. A desirable, untamable animal.

Her frustration was completely raw on her face. She wore no masks with him. She was completely herself now. With her rage came her loss of control, and with that loss she was not the quite the Sea Lioness anymore. She was nothing but a raw, brazen woman.

"Get up there!" he ordered her viciously, and she snarled at him.

"I'm goin'!" she snapped, her accent shifting to her biting, native Irish. It was the most beautiful damn sound he'd ever heard. "Sir!" she added angrily, correcting herself before he had the chance, and he booted her up the stairs anyway. She leapt up the last three steps before he could catch her and didn't bother to look back, she was so pissed.

Geneva stormed across the main deck, up to the forecastle deck, and sat herself down on the very stern of the ship in a huff. Right when she was beginning to see everything clearly again, _right_ when she was beginning the real makings of a plan, there came the damn first mate in all his egotistical glory to trample on her. She had every right to bite back at him, and she enjoyed every second of it until he trumped her, and he'd always trump her in the end, no matter how hard she fought. It enraged her.

She heaved a horrid sigh and calmed down some. She was glad he hadn't followed her. No doubt he'd just frustrate himself even more. She didn't want him over here anyway. She could deal with her own temper tantrums on her own, and she didn't need him to try and policing her all the time. She wasn't two years old. She took a deep breath and sighed, and her face finally unraveled from its scowl. She had cooled herself off.

She looked over the side of the ship. The waves were becoming tall. She turned and looked across the ship. The crew was making ready to head right into that damn storm. Of course they would. It was just her luck.

She headed back down to the main deck. Will was nowhere to be seen. She guessed they'd put him into the brig for safekeeping, just like they had for her. But she had to find Bootstrap. That was his son. He had to know. She looked around the ship in the chaotic dark and the noise. She couldn't find him anywhere. She heard the storm looming over the ship now. She felt like it was all on top of her. She cursed incoherently at the sky, and she felt the rain coming, so she ran to her room and shut herself in there for the night as the crew retired to the lower decks.


	18. Chapter 18

The rain hit that night. It screamed and roared, and Geneva couldn't hear herself think. The crew was up and back out on the deck only a couple hours later, right when it hit. Water rushed everywhere, through the halls, across the deck, under trampling boots. Geneva tore up the stairs, along with the rest of them. She couldn't be in the lower decks. She would drown.

When she surfaced on the main deck, the water hit her like a wall. She couldn't seem to move, but she was shoved out of the way. She couldn't see a thing. Lightning flew across the sky, and she looked up and saw the plodding, deformed bodies, only for a moment, and then it went black again, and the thunder roared, all around her, and she stood up and tumbled across the ship to rigging ties.

The ship was waning to starboard, and then to portside. She couldn't keep up. There was water everywhere. In her clothes, in her boots, in her hair, in her whole body. She could have vomited up water.

She grabbed the lines. The orders. Tie up the sails. Pull up the cannon from the main deck to the forecastle. She couldn't feel anything. She could hear nothing. She could barely see her own hands. The lightning soared, and for a moment, she thought her hands were bones.

She whirled around, and nearly smacked into Will. She could see him. He tried to say something, maybe to apologize for running into her. But she was too spooked. He looked at her with raw confusion, and then he was grabbed and pulled away. She lost him in the rain. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't breathe!

She ran across the catwalks and nearly slipped down the stairs. Maccus was roaring orders left and right. She could see him, right under the quarterdeck.

She couldn't breathe. She was trapped. Trapped inside. Suffocating, paralyzed.

"Tie down the line!" It was Maccus. She saw flashes of light, bodies, water everywhere, and it was too loud. Piercing screams as the water hit the deck.

"Tie it!" he roared. He was upon her now. He came out of nowhere. She couldn't move. Why? Why?!

He shoved her toward the rigging ties, and there was a flash, and his hands were forcing hers to the ropes. "Tie 'em down!"

She tried. It was knotted. But she couldn't see it at all. She was blind.

"Damn it, I said tie it! That ain't a fuckin' knot!"

She shook. Untied it again and fumbled. She tried again and again.

He was right behind her, all of a sudden.

"What are you doin'?!"

She couldn't speak.

He yanked the ropes away from her.

"Quit bein' a damned fool!"

"I can't breathe!" she choked out. Suddenly she could see his face.

Her eyes were wild with terror. He hadn't looked at her before. She was gasping, frozen. Traumatized. He didn't know what to do. Her hands were on the ropes, trying and trying, endlessly knotting, about to collapse. He grabbed her arm and pulled her away from the ties.

"Quit foolin' around!" he roared down at her. She struggled and squirmed in his grip. She was whimpering. She was trying to flee. She wouldn't look up at him. She flailed as if she were blind.

He grabbed her by the scalp and forced her head up, and she screeched, almost painfully, some kind of deep agony, and then the wail was choked off, and she thrashed, trying to break free. He tried to grab her arms, anything to get her to wake up. He didn't know what was going on. She was nuts. She wouldn't hear him. She wouldn't stop thrashing. He didn't have time for this. This had to stop now.

He raised his arm, ready to strike her across the face, when suddenly, the cannon slammed down against the deck. Half the crew fell over in the impact. Maccus froze, and he released her hair, looking around. That was the mast tackle. Who had hold of the mast tackle?

Geneva's eyes snapped wide, and she suddenly looked to the forecastle deck. Maccus followed her gaze. Then, out of nowhere, she bolted from his grip and sprinted up the stairs to the catwalks, and he ran right after her. She was going to interfere. He had to stop her.

She reached the top of the stairs and froze.

No.

Will was on the ground. The mast tackle was gone. It was him.

She could only stare in horror. She knew what was coming. She couldn't let it happen. She couldn't watch it happen! She had to stop it. Will was her plan. He was her escape!

Jimmy Legs appeared. No. This couldn't happen.

She stepped forward, but a sudden hand gripped her scalp. She let out a cry, and her body was slammed backwards, right into Maccus' barnacle-encrusted chest.

"You ain't impedin' on this," he growled at her as she struggled. "You'll watch all of it. It'd do you good to remember the sting of your own lashes!"

She thrashed her legs, but he was too strong. She couldn't move. She couldn't get out. She had to. She couldn't let this happen. He didn't get it. She could not watch this.

"Let go!" she pleaded, and she thrashed harder than ever. "Please, let go of me!" She turned her head away from the scene, but he forced her back, so hard he could have snapped her neck.

"You will watch this!" he seethed, right into her ear, all around her. "All of it!"

Bootstrap yanked the cat o' nines from the captain's hand. Geneva writhed violently. That was his son. Why hadn't she found him?! She could have stopped this! She could have prevented all of this!

He raised the whip. Will's shirt was torn open. His back was bare. Lighting struck, and the whip came down.

Geneva convulsed. Her whole body went cold. Her insides fell apart. She thrashed hard. She had to stop this. She had to.

But Maccus was too strong. His arm was like iron. She was imprisoned. She had to get out!

But the whip came crashing down, again and again. What was this? What was the purpose of this?! She could see inside him. It wasn't his fault! He hadn't dropped the line! What kind of punishment was this?!

Will was too weak to stand. They dragged him over and threw him down the stairs to the main deck, right in front of her. Maccus let go of her. But she was filled with rage. She whirled around.

"How dare you?" she breathed, teeth clenched, and her voice suddenly escalated into a full on scream. "What kind of lesson was that supposed to be?!"

His face curled into a threatening snarl. He grabbed right for her. He would shut her mouth permanently. Too long had he let her get by with this disrespect. He would beat her right here, right now.

"No!" she roared, and she whipped out her cutlass and pointed it right at his face. She was crazy. She was downright out of control. This was going south fast.

"You listen to me!" she snarled, and there was a tone of pain behind her voice. He stopped. "If you'da let me go, you would'a known it wasn't his fault! He wasn't the one who dropped it!"

"Sheathe your sword!" he demanded, teeth bared. He didn't want to get out his longsword if he didn't have to. She was wild, too wild to be wielding a sword. Things were about to get ugly.

"Fuck you!" she howled, her voice shaking and uneven. Maccus yanked his sword out of the sheath on his back. The rain pelted her face, and behind her anger, behind those green eyes, there was something else. He didn't understand it, and as the water hit her face and ran down, it almost looked like tears.

What was this?

"Drop your sword!" he roared, longsword fully brandished. "Do not think I won't kill you! Drop it now!"

Her rage only heightened, and her face was filled with hateful agony. She only gripped it harder. He swung, both hands on the hilt, and the blades clanged only once. Her sword fell from her hands easily, and he threw his aside and grabbed her by the throat. He thought he had her, but as he lifted her, she kicked him right in the stomach, in a spot that wasn't as armored. He dropped her, and she hit the deck, scrambling to stand back up before he could grab her again.

He kicked her sword away before she could get to it. But she didn't go for it. Her eyes were filled with such a tormented existence, nigh betrayal. Her fists came up, ready to fight all the way to the bitter end, despite how hopeless her chances were.

"You may beat me through the floor," she snarled, and he knew the water pouring down her face was tears. "You may tear me limb from limb! Do what you like! I will never fall to a sadistic monster like you!"

Maccus stopped. He couldn't move. His scowl disappeared. Monster? She was standing there, ready to fight him to her bloody demise. She was ready to be torn apart by the likes of him. He should have torn her head off. He should have pulled her tongue right out. He should have ripped her body right in half, slit her throat, and thrown her to the gulls.

A monster?

Why did it stop him? He knew he was a monster. He'd always known. The whole crew, they were all monsters. They all knew it. There was no simpler truth. So why did it make him stop?

Why did it…?

Hurt?

She was not afraid of him. He had only hesitated for a moment. But he was thrown off. He was confused. He didn't know what to do. So he did the only thing he knew how to do. He reached out to grab her.

She dodged, and she was about to turn and flee. No. She wouldn't do that. He didn't know what else to think. She couldn't just turn her back on her superior. He reached out and grabbed her arm, and he was about to yank her backwards, but she whirled around first, and her arm flew up, like lightning, faster than he could block her, and she slapped him hard across the face.

He'd never been slapped. His whole head was thrown to one side. He dropped his hold on her arm. He was so shocked. He was dumbfounded. He looked back at her. She looked hurt. He couldn't read her voice. It was angry and pained, everything all at once.

"Do not touch me," she whispered harshly, and she turned away from him quickly, before he could even form a thought, and she dashed down to the main deck, into the chaos. He pulled himself out of the shock, and he went after her, but she had already disappeared. He'd lost her.

He stopped. It was hopeless. All of it. He couldn't catch her.

"Well, that was unfortunate."

Maccus froze.

"Sir," he responded immediately, stopping to face his captain.

Jones mumbled thoughtfully.

"Wouldn't you agree, first mate?"

It was a loaded question.

"Aye, sir. That it was." He almost stuttered.

Jones reached for his pipe.

"I would hate to see a breakdown in discipline aboard my vessel," Jones went on, his accent thick as smoke. "Wouldn't you, first mate?"

Maccus breathed. This was dangerous. Jones was almost circling him.

"Aye, sir," he forced out. "Would be a shame, sir." What was this? He hardly knew what he was saying anymore. And yet, the words came right out of his mouth, as if he believed them, as if they were habitual. Had he always said that? He couldn't remember.

"I've been observing," Jones stated thoughtfully, lighting his pipe. The rain was slowing. "I believe you've been… a bit soft with the wretch. And for that, I have an answer."

Maccus looked at the captain. Jones cocked his head curiously, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He chuckled.

"The navigator scared her, did he not?" he mused. Maccus remembered her face, her horrified face, blood running down her mouth. His eyes widened in horror. No. Not this. But the captain was not watching. He took a puff from his pipe as he looked out over the laboring crew.

"Let us observe then, Maccus, what happens when she cannot escape."  


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter contains instances of rape, sexual abuse, and vomiting. Reader discretion is advised.

It had been hours. Maccus couldn't find her. Part of him didn't want to.

He didn't know why he'd been letting her get away with so much. But how could he have stopped her? She couldn't be held down. She had nothing holding her back. She had nothing to lose. He had everything.

_He felt like he was losing it all anyway._

He had to shake himself. No more. He couldn't think like that. All those thoughts he had, all those stupid thoughts he held. They were all garbage.

_A monster?_

Yes, a monster! Of course! Wasn't already bloody obvious to him?! Wasn't it already there?!

And yet, with so much contempt on her tongue, so much anger in her voice, and the tears—God, _the tears in her eyes?_

That _stopped_ him?

In his bloomin' tracks? Him? The fearless, barbaric giant, the brute who tore out the tongues of men as if it were child's play?

God, he couldn't do this.

But he had to. He didn't know how. But he had to. His vision was starting to go dark. Every time he thought about her, the way she'd been weeping right in front of him, the anger in her voice, and every time he tried to back out in his mind, every time he cowered away from Jones' words, his vision would go dark and he'd nearly fall over. He had to stop right in his tracks, and pull himself together, or he'd pass out, he knew. It took the breath right out of him.

But that made it obvious. If he didn't set her straight, all of the blame would land on his shoulders. Jones would kill him. He was watching now, right over Maccus' shoulder. Maccus had no choice. He had to do it, or he'd be made to, thrust down to his knees like a wretch. That's what he would earn for insolence. Jimmy Legs would tear his back apart. Scrape it bare. The mere thought of lashes made him weak. He feared the cat o' nines. He would be killed at the hand of the bosun, but at the mercy of the Devil. The threat of lashes forced him to complete, steadfast allegiance. Nothing could stop him under the shadow of this fear. Within this prison, every order had always been obeyed, without one hesitation, without a single bat of an eye. It had been so for decades now, and it would never end.

And yet, Maccus was still wavering.

He only searched for her half-heartedly. He made sure it looked like he was being thorough. He didn't expect her to be in her room. He couldn't imagine where she was. Likely somewhere she knew he wouldn't look. And for that, he was truly glad. If he wouldn't think to look there, she wouldn't be found. And he hoped she would stay there forever, hidden, safe, completely out of sight. If he couldn't find her, he couldn't ruin her.

The storm finally began to cease. The rain became nothing more than ever-present ocean spray, a mist that hovered and kept everything moist. There was no work left to be done. The cannon was raised and the sails were tied back. It was late. The storm had lasted for hours into the night, and now, it had to be one in the morning. But the crew decided to congregate under the wing of the quarterdeck for a few games of liar's dice. It was the only thing they had aboard the ship that was any fun. Even Maccus found it enjoyable to gamble. It was the only thing left now that could make him feel human.

He watched Ratlin, Palifico, and Clanker try at a round, hunched over on the deck, feverishly guarding their cups of dice. Palifico tended to be rather good at bluffing, but Clanker was better at calling out liars. He won the game, and he challenged Koleniko, as if nobody already knew he would. Those two were inseparable.

Then, it became Koleniko's chance to challenge for another player. He scanned the crew, and when his eyes fell on Maccus, he smiled widely.

"I challenge the first mate!" he announced, stupid grin on his face, and Clanker snorted at him.

"Oh, balderdash," he laughed at the navigator. "You're jus' sayin' that so you can win!"

"I ain't that poor at it, ya' louse!" Maccus growled, and the crew erupted into laughter. The three of them congregated in a circle, and the dice were cast, hard on the deck. Maccus spoke up first.

"I wager ten years." It was customary to do ten. It was low enough so that it wasn't too detrimental if you lost, but it was high enough to be worth something to you.

"I'll match his wager," Clanker snarled, and they both looked at Koleniko, who was left. But the navigator had a wicked smile on his face.

"You know, gents," he mused with a slithering voice. "I don't think we've been proper blokes." He turned his head toward the rudder. "I challenge the whore."

Maccus' eyes widened, and he looked up. Sure enough, there she was, leaning against a support, nearly hidden in the shadows. Her eyes narrowed in response.

"An' what if I choose to decline?" she replied in a low, dangerous voice. Clanker chuckled darkly.

"You won't, sweetheart," Koleniko assured her, promising much more in retaliation with his tone of voice. Snickers emanated from the crew. That was a threat. She wouldn't get out of this game.

Another cup of dice was fetched, and Koleniko made room for her between himself and Clanker. She begrudgingly knelt down, a real sour look on her face. She was not amused.

"What's your wager?" the navigator hissed softly, a tickled grin across his face.

"What's yours?" she asked sharply, a fearless look in her eye. Koleniko smirked.

"Ten years," he replied, as if it were obvious. That was the suggested wager. Now it was her turn. She glanced around fast, only with her eyes. He would have liked her to say that. But she wasn't about to.

"I don't have any years to wager," she said thoughtfully, but very coyly. "I'm immortal. Time don't matter to me, so it wouldn't make a good wager, would it?"

She was copying the navigator's accent and all. And he didn't even have a clue. Maccus could see it all. She was treading in dangerous waters. If she wasn't careful, that man was going to take a real liking to her. This was only fueling him.

"But I know what would," she cooed, smiling seductively. "And I know how to raise the stakes." Her eyes were on the navigator, and for a moment, they flitted to Maccus, and her gaze almost went right through him. That was a practiced look. She was _trying_ to seduce the navigator. Maccus nearly growled. This was going to be bad.

"The first one to call my bluff _correctly,_ " she went on, her voice smooth. "Gets this." She reached behind her neck and pulled her damp, auburn braid to one side, allowing it to drape alluringly over one shoulder. "All the way up to the top." It was a good two-foot-long chunk of hair.

Dirty chuckles escaped the throats of the men standing around them. She turned and eyed Will, smiling, and she winked at him. She knew what she was doing.

But Koleniko wasn't quite satisfied.

"And after that?" he posed, an expectant look in his eye. She glanced back at him with a charming gaze.

"After?" she asked, as if it were preposterous, and she giggled, brushing her hand over her hair so sweetly. "Darling, when my hair is gone—so am I." Her gaze became intense and unmoving, suddenly much more powerful than he expected, and her voice became low and dark with finality. "Take it or leave it."

Koleniko growled, nearly seething. He was not happy. "So be it."

She flashed a smile at him, but it was hardly genuine, and he knew it. She cast her dice, and then she looked up, ready.

Koleniko was watching her every move. "Your bid," he said darkly. The look in his eye had become deadly. He would get his hands on her, and once he did, he'd tear her apart.

Geneva looked down at her dice. There were 20 on the table. So she started off safe. She didn't care who got her hair. She didn't care about it at all. It was only a distraction, a way for her to get out relatively unscathed. The faster she lost, the sooner she could get out of there.

She hadn't fooled everyone though. It was obvious to Maccus that the navigator knew exactly what she was pulling. She'd just barely slid past him. She would have to truly play if she wanted to save her skin. If he saw that her hair was just a pawn, he'd have a knife to her throat in seconds.

The game went on for a short while. Their bids progressively grew. The game was getting harder. It was Geneva's bid again. She knew this one might be her last.

"Twelve fives," she declared after some thought, and the whole crew looked over at Koleniko, who was at complete ease, a contented, venomous look in his eye. This was it.

"Liar," he murmured, his voice sticky, horribly awful. He was terribly ugly. He didn't even smile. He was far beyond amusement at this point. He was angry. He would have much more of her than she wagered.

"Am I?" she inquired. Her guess was lofty, but certainly not out of the question. They all lifted their cups and revealed their dice. Eleven fives.

The air was tense. Where Maccus would have expected Koleniko to chuckle victoriously, the navigator only watched Geneva, unblinking, undoubtedly with horrible intent. She had to get out of there, and fast. Maccus didn't know how he could get her out. He couldn't say a word. But she needed to leave.

Geneva pulled her braid over her shoulder in preparation to cut it off. The whole crew was hooting and hollering at this point. There were even a few whistles. But Koleniko's face did not change. He would not be cheated out of what he truly wanted.

"I can help you with that," he muttered, leaning forward, but she pulled out her cutlass and brandished it, holding her ground. She easily slipped the blade behind the plait.

"Oh, don't you worry, darlin'," she assured him, eyes cold as ice. "I'm sure I can manage." She sawed at it, right up against her head, and with a few cuts, it came off, and leaving the longest pieces, which were now her bangs, to fall forward and frame her face. They only barely brushed past her jaw.

She tossed the braid at him, only to distract him, and she stood up fast, just as he caught it. Her eyes traveled to Will quickly, and before Koleniko could go after her, Will piped up.

"I challenge Davy Jones!"

The whole crew was reduced to a stunned silence and turned to stare at him. Geneva backed out and slipped away from the crowd. She fled up to the quarterdeck, up the starboard side as the captain went down the portside stairs. That was too close.

She retreated all the way back to the poop and found a bucket of water. It was seawater, but it would do. She wetted her hair and began to even out its length with her cutlass. No more would she have bangs that smacked her in the eyes. It would be short enough to be out of the way.

She heard Will's game commence. She'd seen it in his eyes when she looked up at him. He had intended to challenge Davy Jones all along. Geneva knew it, and Will seemed to know she was fully aware of it, too. She sighed in relief. And, on top of that, he was honorable. She could appreciate that. Now, all it took was one look, and they were on the same page. Having a willing pawn was proving to be useful. Maybe he was even proving to be an ally.

But she finally knew what he was really after. She wasn't the only one trying to get off this ship now, and perhaps Will presented an even better way to go about it than she had originally planned. He had his sights set on a key: the key to Davy Jones' chest; the key to his still beating heart.

She knew how it all worked. You stab the heart, you become captain. You hold the heart in your hand, and Jones does your bidding. It was a fair deal. But it wasn't smart, not right now. The key did no good without the chest. But, if Will could somehow gain control of the chest as well, Geneva would have a chance. So he had to get that key first.

It was his plan to challenge Jones to liar's dice. He would use that was his bluff. Geneva smiled at the thought. He was a clever mortal. His wager was outrageous. The biggest distraction she'd seen in years. He hadn't really thought too much of it. He had intended it to raise the stakes, to present an offer Jones couldn't refuse.

For Geneva, eternity was merely a large number. But for a mortal, an eternity was forever. It was something Will couldn't walk away from. And to Jones, it was the easiest catch. He had to accept the offer. If he didn't, he was a fool. But he didn't count on Will being so smart. He didn't need to win the game. It was all a trick. It didn't matter whether he won or lost. By seeing where Jones hid the key, he'd already won.

She had to hand it to him. Will was a bright one. She admired clever people. But his poor wretch of a father didn't understand Will's purpose in wagering his soul. He joined the game, striving to be the father he never was, all to save his son from a fate from which Will didn't need saving. But he couldn't let his son be damned to an eternity of servitude. So he took it for himself. It was admirable, but it was also foolish.

Geneva stopped listening and finished fixing her hair. The crew was dispersing for the night. It was extremely late, so late that it would have been more correct to say it was early. It must have been two in the morning. She wouldn't get much sleep at this point. Maybe four hours if she was lucky.

Her thoughts were interrupted as she heard heavy footsteps coming up the stairs to the quarterdeck. She held her sword with one hand and splashed water on her hair with the other, one last time. Whoever it was crossed the deck toward her fast. She gripped the handle and looked up to face him, ready to stab through. But it was only Maccus.

"What?" she asked shortly, running her fingers through her hair to smooth it out some. His scowl only intensified.

"What was that?" he snarled, referring to the game she'd just escaped. She turned and glared at him.

"That was me savin' my own arse," she snapped. "Since nobody else was about to."

"Bullshit. I bet you thought that was real cute, bettin' your hair off like that. You have no idea what—!"

"I have no idea what else you would've rather seen me bet off!" she snarled accusingly, her voice rising. "Do _not_ pretend to throw in your lot with me. You didn't say a damn word against the navigator. I fended for myself down there."

"An' look where it gotchya!" Maccus spat back. "You taunt him like that and he's bound to slit your throat!"

"An' I bet you would watch!" Geneva hurled at him viciously. "I'm not an idiot. I ain't helpless. I can take care of myself, an' I don't need the likes of you to tell me how to do it. You don't give a rat's arse about me. All you care about is makin' sure I'm undertow. Well I've got news for you. You can plan on lookin' like a fool. You ain't gonna blame me for your own failure, an' I sure as hell ain't gonna lick your boots."

With that, she swiftly turned away from him and stormed straight off the quarterdeck. Maccus was seething.

"So be it!" he hurled after her, nearly at the top of his lungs. "I _hope_ he slits your throat! I hope you get killed! I'm just _itchin'_ to see it!"

" _Good!_ " she screamed back at him, already disappearing below the catwalks. "Kiss my arse while you're at it, you cowhearted _lout!"_

She didn't even bother looking back at him. She couldn't have cared less. She wasn't going to piss herself off by staying there. She shoved past Greenbeard on her way down to her room, and slammed the door. She had four hours of sleep to get, and she wasn't planning to lose any of it.

* * *

 

Maccus was almost through a whole bottle of rum. He hadn't drank this much in years. He knew he'd probably regret it in the morning. But he didn't care.

He'd figured on having some. Maybe not this much. But he needed it. Anything to drown it all out.

He didn't understand it. He didn't even want to think about it. He didn't know what he thought anymore. He didn't know why he bothered to think, why he bothered to try and reason with her. If she wanted to get herself killed, then by all means, he wasn't going to stop her. He didn't give a damn.

He took another healthy swig. Greenbeard had come up right after she left. He offered to take the helm. Said Maccus probably deserved a break after taking watch for so many nights. Said he could probably could use a drink. Maccus told him he'd be right back up after a bit. He still wanted to have time to himself afterward.

The sound of boozed up laughter surrounded him. He heard the navigator and a few others talking nearby. Maccus glanced over as offhandedly as he could muster. He was starting to feel tipsy. Maybe he should have slowed down some.

Koleniko still had the braid. A man near him tried to reach for it, and he yanked it away defensively.

"Get yerown," he snarled, and the congregation chucked as he finished the rest of his own rum. He looked to be drunk already.

He looked up and caught Maccus' eye before he could glance away in time. The navigator stood, and Maccus checked his bottle. He'd need another. But maybe he could break this one on the bastard's head.

"Don' be lookin' s'down," Koleniko slurred. "I'll letya 'ave a go at'er first. Teach 'er a less'n, t'would."

"Go dick off somewhere else," Maccus snapped. Koleniko leaned against the barrel right next to Maccus.

"What're ya' sour?" he demanded drunkenly, and Maccus stood up fast, instantly a head higher.

"I said, back off!" Maccus yelled down at him, right in his face, and the man stumbled backward a bit, muttering and chuckling to play off how startled he was.

"Sheesh," Koleniko mumbled exaggeratedly. "Temper, temper. So _tha_ 'swhy you don' drink."

"Oh, lay off him already, Koleniko," Palifico said, glancing at Maccus. "Let him have his rum in peace."

Maccus grumbled and turned around. The whole orlop seemed to be whirling. He shouldn't have stood up so quickly. He looked around groggily. There was a bottle that was half full sitting on a barrel nearby, but he turned away from it. He didn't need anymore. He'd already had enough, and he knew this was only the beginning of his dizziness. He hadn't drank like this in a long time.

The dark hallway was not easy to navigate. But the stairs even were worse. God, he couldn't go up there like this. Greenbeard would never let him take the wheel. He needed to straighten up. Maybe Greenbeard wouldn't even be up there. If Maccus had said he'd be right back up, then maybe the man had gone off to bed.

He finally got up the stairs, and up onto the main deck. There were way too many bloomin' stairs. Whoever thought of that many stairs was a shitting cod-piece. He couldn't even find the stairs to the catwalks. God, he was pathetic. He was that drunk. He couldn't believe himself. He felt like an idiot. And that awful feeling in his gut didn't go away. Feelings must have liked rum.

Finally he thudded down on a crate and leaned up against the mainmast. He couldn't think. He didn't know what he would do. It was all a blur. All he could do was stare up at the sky. He couldn't even see the stars.

* * *

  
  
Geneva was leaning over the railing at the very stern of the ship, watching it cut through the waves. She couldn't sleep. She had tried. But something was eating at her.

She stared outward into the ocean, into the darkness. _He_ was the one that was supposed to feel lousy. He was the one that was supposed to feel guilty.

Not her.

It was pathetic. She'd never felt like this before. Why couldn't she shake this off like everything else?! Why was _she_ the one left with all the guilt?

Maybe it wasn't even guilt. That was it. It had to be something else. She wouldn't let herself feel like this. She had done nothing wrong, nothing different than she had ever done before.

She had been through this argument in her head three times now. But just when she thought she was in the clear, her mind would go right back and start all over again. She couldn't stop seeing his face. She'd meant it when she called him a monster. Truly.

But when she said it, she hadn't expected it to affect him as much as it did. He was about to tear her apart. Nothing was stopping him. And then, when she said those words, something appeared in his eye, and he hesitated, like it had wounded him or something.

She rolled her eyes at the thought. He was supposed to have thick skin. Insults meant nothing to him. They never had. So why, all of a sudden, did it bother him _now?_

She couldn't wrap her head around it. She honestly didn't want to. She didn't care. She was through with him. She'd made that perfectly clear before. She was going to stand on her own. He was just mad because she wouldn't back down for him anymore.

She sighed and quietly stared at the mist.

But why did he hesitate?

Geneva scowled, clenched her teeth, and kicked the nearest thing, which happened to be the railing. It wasn't at all forgiving, and she yelped quietly at the impact, trying to shake out her throbbing foot.

Just then, she heard a thump. She paused. It was from behind her, but it was far off. Greenbeard was still on watch at the helm. She squinted. Maccus always took watch. She always remembered him taking watch anyway. It was ridiculous. She had no idea how he did it. He must have never slept.

She turned from the stern and walked across the forecastle deck. She only had three hours to get any sleep in. She trudged down the stairs, down to the main deck, and as she reached the bottom, she stopped abruptly. There was a figure seated at the foot of the mainmast.

Her hand went to the hilt of her cutlass. Her heartrate was through the roof.

The navigator.

She had to walk across the deck, right in front of him. He would hear her. She knew it. There was no getting around him. He was practically waiting for her out there in the darkness, just like he had been the first time. But she had a weapon now. And she would use it.

She stepped out onto the deck. The stairs downward were across the way. She had to pass him.

Suddenly, he moved. But his silhouette was huge. The navigator wasn't that big by any means. She felt threatened and took a step back.

"Who goes there?" she demanded, pulling out her sword.

The figure stood up completely. He was a good head taller than she was.

"What're you doin' 'ere?" he snarled. Geneva shook her head. She couldn't believe her ears.

"Maccus?" she asked, downright confused. She lowered her sword. He sounded off.

He didn't respond, and only grumbled at her. She wanted to leave. But why wasn't he at the helm?

"What are you doin' down here?" she asked him, but she wasn't sure why she asked. She didn't really care. It just seemed odd.

He gave her a disgusted look and sat back down on the crate.

"That'snone o' your damn business," he grumbled. Geneva stopped. He had slurred.

"Are you drunk?" she questioned, completely dumbfounded.

"An' who's ta care if I am?" he blubbered in response.

"Oh my God," she breathed. She couldn't believe this. She sheathed her sword. What was she doing? What was _he_ doing? What was going on?

"I thought you didn't drink!" she hissed at him, stepping toward him. He turned and glared at her.

" _You_ thunk?" he repeated. "You think I give'n arse's rat what _you_ thunk?"

Geneva could only stare. He was beyond drunk. And now, she was starting to believe it was her fault.

"No!" she muttered to herself, and turned around for a moment to scold herself. "No, no, no, no, no! You ain't doin' this! None of this! Stop that!"

But it was too late. She already felt guilty.

It _was_ her fault. At least a little. Only a _little_.

She huffed frustratedly. "Stupid, stupid, stupid, _stupid!"_

She turned right back around and faced him. If she did one thing, it would be only _one_ thing, and that would be to get him back to his room, wherever that was. He was the first mate. He couldn't be seen bumbling around as intoxicated as he was. For some reason, she cared about that. But that was besides the point.

He had already lost interest and was looking up at the sky.

"Hey!" she snapped, trying to get his attention. She thought of shaking him but thought better of it. She didn't want to touch him.

" _Oi!"_ she said again, a little louder. "Fishface!"

He looked right at her, a pissed scowl spread across his face, and he stood right up. Geneva's eyes went wide. Not what she wanted.

"No!" she yelped. "No, no, no, no, no! Sit _down!"_ But he didn't. "You can't be walkin' around like this, like a drunken fool! _Sit down!"_

Finally, seeing he wouldn't listen, she punched him square in the jaw, and that was enough to knock him off his feet. He fell right back down onto the crate again, dazed from the blow.

"There," she breathed. "Alright. Where's your room?"

Cross, incoherent mumblings.

"Do you even _remember_ where your room is?"

"Go ta hell," he grumbled at her, and she narrowed her eyes.

"Shut up," she snarled. "Just tell me where your bloody room is!"

"Up yer arse."

Geneva threw up her arms. "He wants to be a bloody fool!" she squeaked at the heavens in disbelief, and then she motioned wildly at him. "Who am _I_ to bar you?"

He was mumbling now, some unintelligible nonsense. Geneva rolled her eyes. What was she doing? This was pointless. Trying to reason with a man who was drunk and two times her size. She had no idea what she had hoped to accomplish.

"Ya know," he babbled, as if he'd been talking all along. "We're used to lookin' like mon'strus. The wenches'll do what ya pay for if ya pay for it."

"What?" she asked, looking at him confusedly.

"An' they get fuckin' terrified," he almost let out a chuckle, words just tumbling out of his mouth uncontrollably. "It gets bloody fun to scare 'em half ta death. They ain't never seen mon'strus before, none of 'em the likes of us, they haven't. God forbid one of us walks in on 'em!"

It almost seemed like he would have laughed. But he didn't. He just lifted up his hand and looked at it strangely.

"Ya know," he muttered, softly now. "I used to think… that I had skin. Like you." He held up his other hand that was crusted with a lobster shell. His fingers were nothing but twitching lobster legs. "But how do ya have _skin_ when ya look like a lobster an'...?" He paused for a moment, staring at his grey hand, confusedly, and then he suddenly thrust it in her direction.  
"What _is_ this?" he asked her. She was caught off guard.

"Sharkskin?" she offered timidly. He yanked back his hand and looked at it suspiciously.

"Sharkskin?" he muttered, barely even saying it correctly. Then he grumbled, scowling. "I hate sharks. Scare all the fish away from all your nets, an' scare the blazes outta _you_. Ugly bastards." He was quiet for a moment, grumbling to himself. Then he spoke up again. "But sharks don' have these, they 'ave… Oh, _hell_ , what are those things?"

Geneva sighed. She knelt down on the deck in front of him and just sat there, watching.

"Flippers?" she suggested softly.

"F… No…" he blubbered, thinking out loud, still looking accusingly at his slimy gray hand. "What _is_ that?" He sat there, thinking to himself, in little mumbles, trying to come up with the word. "Fins! No…" His brow furrowed again. "Oh, fuck it. What are these things?" He frustratedly waved his hand in front of her again. She didn't know what word he was looking for anymore.

"Hands," she whispered.

Maccus snorted. "No they ain't." Then, he caught her watching him, and his face contorted into a scowl again.

"What the hell are you lookin' at?" he snarled.

She sighed.

_What had she done?_

She was about to speak, but a feeling hit her. It was almost a voice.

" _ **Touch 'im."**_

She froze.

She knew that voice. It was in her head, in her soul, in her being.

Calypso.

She hesitated. She didn't want to. She had never wanted to touch him. Or anyone on that ship. The thought disgusted her.

" _ **Touch 'im. See 'im who dares spark your war."**_

"Yew gotta problem?" Maccus demanded, knocking her out of her thoughts. She looked up at him. She had to do it. There was a power surging through her. She knew it. It was her own, but it was foreign. She felt it filling her hands.

She looked at her hands, and then at his. This had to be it. She knew it. She reached out.

Maccus snarled disgustedly. "What're yew doin'?"

"Let me see your hands," she whispered. He made a face, but did nothing, probably too drunk to really think, and she took hold of his wrists.

In a sudden surge, her energy poured through her fingers and into him. Right before her eyes, she was holding huge, sun-charred wrists, and rugged, calloused palms.

She could hear his breathing catch in shock. She couldn't tear her gaze away. Was this…?

Him?

Underneath it all?

"As Calypso is my creator," she breathed humbly, nearly forgetting to glorify her master's power. "I can see the things she does."

Her voice caught in her throat.

"You're not a monster, Maccus."

_What was she saying?_

"I was wrong when I told you that."

_Did she even believe her own words?_

"Don't you see?"

He couldn't speak. He had forgotten how to. He was in shock. She was afraid to look up at his face. She didn't know what she would see.

But she looked anyway.

She didn't know why.

Curiosity?

Maybe.

But something made her look up.

Right into his face.

Into his eyes.

_**Both of them.** _

She didn't know what she expected to see. Anything but what she saw. Everything went blank. All she had thought, all the things she'd said and believed. It fell from her, disappearing like dust.

"Maccus…"

She was afraid. Suddenly, she had no walls. Suddenly, she could see him, and she was vulnerable. Right out in the open.

What had she done to him?

Had she...?

" _I'm sorry…"_

And then, it slammed right through her. Her soul plummeted downward through her body, down like an iron, falling, right through the floor, right through the ship, down and down, into the depths, further yet, and she gasped and her hands dropped from his wrists. Her vision went blurry. Everything was falling out of view. She couldn't breathe. She panicked. _No! She shouldn't have done this!_

Everything screamed inside her. Her breath was shrieking, crying, she was nearly weeping, and the pain dragged her down, farther and farther, dangling over an abyss, a deep, endless, forsaken pit, and she could barely hold on to the ledge.

He was above her. Once she'd let go of him, he reverted back to the curse. He was confused and dazed. His face. She had only expected to see him. But it was him, it was more than him, more than she knew he was. His face. His eyes. Speechless, in disbelief. She saw so much, so much more than she should have. Oh God, she shouldn't have looked. He was nothing but a man, and everything she believed he wasn't. Underneath it all, underneath the ugliness, he wasn't cruel, terrible, or heartless, he wasn't a heathen or a demon or monster. He was…

His ugly, cursed face contorted as he looked back at his hands.

_Angry._

And now, she was vulnerable.

She couldn't move.

He looked down at her, deadly rage in his eyes.

"Maccus, wait," she begged up at him, but he only towered over her further as she was dangling, trying to pull herself up. She could barely speak. His teeth were bared. His eye was glazed. He looked different now. And when he spoke, she was suddenly frightened.

" _I've been given orders."_

All at once, he picked her up by her throat, and she couldn't breathe. It was dark, all around, everywhere and nowhere. The air was gone, and she flailed, pulled, screamed, kicked, trying and failing, begging and pleading, crying out, but she hit the floor, and he grabbed her arms and yanked, both at the same time, and she gasped and sputtered, and couldn't see, couldn't move, couldn't breathe, nothing but pain, everywhere, all around, and she couldn't stand up, and her back hit the ground again and again, and she kicked but couldn't stand, the crashes and drumming of her head against the stairs, and she saw the flashes of lightning, and she could feel the rain on her, the screaming rain, and suddenly, she was on her back, in a dark, musty, dead-smelling place, unable to move, and she woke up. He was on top of her. She jolted up.

"Maccus!" she yelled, but he slammed her down, and his teeth sank into her collarbone, and she screamed, "Stop it!" but he wouldn't, and she felt a slimy, wetness on her neck, and she shrieked and shoved, but he was too large, and his grip trapped her, and she kicked, flailing, trying to hit anything, and he came down on her legs, and she couldn't move, and she screamed and thrashed, yelled for him to stop, but he didn't hear, and his hand was in her trousers, and she felt like dying, and she couldn't make him stop, and she wondered, hopelessly, what it was she had done to deserve this, and she screamed, in tears,

" _ **Why?!"**_

Maccus froze.

His room. It was dark. The lantern barely lit a thing. He didn't remember lighting it.

He looked down, in a blurry daze.

He saw her.

Underneath him,

Weeping.

Horrible,

Quiet,

Agonious sobs.

Her hands,

Above her head,

Held down

With one grip.

_His._

Unable to move.

Her shirt,

Ripped,

Blood

Running down her neck,

Staining through her shirt.

He could almost

Taste

Blood.

His other hand.

It was hot.

Moist.

Below him.

And he looked down.

It was

Under her

Trousers.

_Inside her._

All of a sudden, he felt bile coming up his throat, and he pulled his hand out of her, completely out and away, like he'd been scorched by fire, and she must have seen it in his face and her hand came up wildly and shoved his head over the side of the bed, and he vomited, all over the floor, all over everything.

He couldn't breathe, and he choked, but more just came up, all over the floor. _God. He felt like shit. Horse shit. All shit._

He gasped and coughed, and she pushed him farther away, but nothing came up, and he dry-heaved, wheezing deeply. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't calm down. He could barely hold himself up, he was so weak.

She was still there, underneath him, cowering, and he could barely speak. She needed to leave. She had to go. Now.

"Get out," he choked out, panting, trying to get ahold of himself. He barely got it out. But she didn't move. **_No._**

"Get out!"

Suddenly, she was out from under him. She jumped over him completely, and she fled wildly through the door, slamming it hard behind her, and she didn't stop running until she got back up to her room, and she fell through the door, hitting the floor and dragging herself over to her bed of scraps, curling up, alone, cold, empty, and she cried herself to sleep.


	20. Chapter 20

_Will was escaping._

Geneva sat up right out of her sleep. Her room was dark. Cold and wet, quiet as death.

He was bobbing in the darkness, rowing away on a lifeboat.

Already gone.

She clenched her teeth.

_There would be no alliance._

Only a vengeful master,

And her graceless pawn.


	21. Chapter 21

Geneva awoke. The morning was cold. So was she.

Change was upon them all.

She slipped out of her room, silent as the grave. The crew was in an uproar. Bootstrap Bill was being dragged up from the orlop by a horde. After they passed her, she followed them up the stairs and to the main deck. Jones was already out there. He already knew what had happened.

"There's a ship to our east!" yelled the quartermaster from above.

"Bootstrap Bill!" Jones snarled as the man was hauled to the helm. "You and your son shall both know the sting of eternity." His temper was fiery as a mason's iron. Geneva hid herself from view under the stairs to the quarterdeck. She knew what was coming.

The crew was already about the capstan, cranking it high into the air. Jones' voice rang out.

"Let no joyful voice be heard!" Geneva looked out to the ship in the distance, the speck. Will was on that ship.

"Let no man look up to the sky with hope!" Jones bellowed. His words were laced with death. Geneva flew across the deck toward the stairs downward.

"And let this day be cursed," he roared, almost reciting a song. "By we who ready to wake _the Kraken!"_

"No!" Bootstrap howled in agony, and the capstan fell, the shock shooting through the water. Geneva tumbled down the rest of the stairs into the gundeck, but stood up fast.

Not today. Today was the day the mighty Davy Jones would rue.

She was _not_ going to fail.

She rushed over to a cannon and heaved it out of the way, and shoved open the gun door. She looked out and spotted the ship. She shut her eyes hard. She didn't know if she could do this. But she had to.

She focused on Will, his soul, his being, his resolve, everything he was defined as, everything he saw and heard and felt. She had to get through. If she could do this, she could get him out alive with that key.

Suddenly she could see what he saw. She could hear what he thought, almost as if it was being

read off to her, as if they were her own thoughts. She had done it!

Will looked down from a sail yard, and suddenly, the boat shook violently. He lost his footing and tumbled, catching hold of a rope. The boat shook violently. He climbed back up, catching his breath, and looked down upon a ship in complete turmoil.

The Kraken had struck.

It's tentacles climbed up the starboard side of the boat, and men scrambled in vain to grab axes and spears, anything to defend themselves with. Chaos ensued, and the gigantuous arms grabbed men where they stood, flinging them wildly as they screamed. The foremast was shattered, the world shook, and Geneva's thoughts became Will's, her volition bonding with his, as the foremast was leaning and tumbling back toward the main mast.

 _Jump!_ And he jumped, landing against the billowing mainsail, sliding down fast. He pulled out a dagger, and stabbed it through the mast to slow his fall, ripping it all the way down. He caught himself on the first yard, and began pulling himself up. The monster was overtaking the ship below him, snakelike feelers curling up the mast now, and Will finally stood himself upon the yard, drawing his sword and fending off the tentacle that had him cornered.

Then, the victorious call of the leviathan rang out, through the heavens and the depths. Two pillars, the Herculean arms of the monster, surfaced and rose high above all, looming and overshadowing, and in one stroke, they plummeted gloriously, straight down on the center of the ship, and it exploded into shards, everywhere, destroyed, severed completely in half. Everything went flying. The beast's mouth surfaced between the two pieces, swallowing everything in its wake, and suddenly, the mast on which Will was standing was shattered in its grip.

 _Dive!_ And he turned away and dove off the mast, straight down the height of the mast, barreling into the water below. The cold rush hit him and the noise became muffled.

And suddenly, Geneva felt the cold rush too, as the _Dutchman_ submerged. She hung onto the frame of the gun door, and kept her connection with Will strong. She would not die, even if she drowned. She calmed herself and closed her eyes, and she looked through Will's eyes once again.

He looked over, under the water, and there was the beast, in all its horror, swallowing up the ship. He couldn't believe his eyes. But he needed air. Geneva needed air. As soon as he had surfaced, he gasped for air, and suddenly Geneva did too, but her lungs were filled with water instead, and she choked, her vision breaking off.

Suddenly, the _Dutchman_ surfaced, and she was back in the gun deck, coughing up water. She threw herself over the muzzle of a cannon and forced the water out of her, coughing up the rest in one strong hack. She got a hold of herself, and then she stuck her head back out the gun door. She couldn't see Will anywhere. That was a good sign. As long as he wasn't caught, she still had a chance.

She stood and pushed the cannon back into position at the door and then turned to climb the stairs to the main deck, purpose in her eyes. This whole day would be hers.

She reached the top, wearing a determined stride, and she glanced over, just across the deck, and there was the first mate.

No.

She turned straight back around, ran down to into gun deck, made it behind a cannon, and threw up. She couldn't reach the gun door in time.

"Don't recall the legends sayin' you had the stomach of a landlubber."

She turned and looked up, panting. Palifico stood at the bottom of the stairs.

"They say," he continued, walking toward her. "That you were born and bred by the sea herself, and when you first stepped on land, you were so terrified by it, you jumped back into the ocean and ne'er returned."

Geneva eyed him suspiciously and turned away, trying to steady herself enough to stand. Suddenly, a canteen was dangling in her face.

"No," Geneva choked out, shaking her head, batting it away. "I can't."

"It helps with nausea," Palifico urged, his voice low and smooth. "And besides. The first mate ain't watchin'."

She froze and shivered.

"I can't," she repeated shakily, barely able to speak, trying to stand up. She felt like she was going to vomit again.

"Easy there," he muttered, catching her before she stumbled. "Sit down for a minute."

She couldn't hold it in and threw up again. Palifico pondered aloud.

"You didn't drink last night, did you?" he asked, trying to recall. She couldn't have answered if she wanted to.

"I didn't see you down there," he went on, answering his own question. She hung on tight to the cannon and winced at the pain in her stomach. God, this hurt.

"Well the first mate sure was," he continued, thinking out loud at this point. He chuckled. "I think he forgot how low a tolerance he had to the stuff. Couldn't hold a thing down this morning."

Geneva dry heaved. She had nothing left to vomit.

"What do you want?" she whispered. She didn't want to hear anymore.

Palifico sighed and crossed his arms, his easygoing voice disappearing.

"The captain wants a word with you. So I'd get it together if I were you."

She sighed. She figured this was coming. The moment she stood up, Palifico took her by the arm and led her up the stairs, all the way to the helm. Half the crew was missing, most likely pillaging the wreckage for survivors.

Jones turned when she made it up the stairs. He was not thrilled in the least.

"The boy," he growled. A sword was brought to her throat. Geneva didn't have the strength to wince. She closed her eyes softly.

"I can tell you nothing that you don't already know," she replied slowly. Jones snapped his head to look back at her, but her eyes were too dead to read. He looked at Palifico, who was holding the sword against her neck.

"No rations for a week," he ordered easily, and he leaned down to her, eyes locked on hers. "We'll see how _talkative_ you feel after that."

With that, Palifico took the sword from her throat and went to guide her back down to the main deck, but she refused to stand, partially out of defiance, and partially out of weakness. Her gaze was dead ahead, unblinking, unfeeling. Palifico was finally forced to drag her down the stairs, and then down into the gun deck again, where he dropped her and threw a mop and bucket at her feet. Then, he left her there, and she turned, picked up the mop, dunked it in the water, and began to clean up her own vomit.

* * *

He felt like retching. He couldn't find Bootstrap's boy in the wreckage. Nobody could. His stomach was on fire. His head throbbed with pain. It only made it worse when he tried to think about it. But he didn't have time to think. He didn't want to. If he even started to think, he'd feel like a wretch.

Maccus returned to the _Dutchman_ and climbed the stairs to the quarterdeck. Jones was at the rail, looking over the wreckage.

"The boy's not here," Maccus spoke up. "He must have been claimed by the sea."

Jones turned just barely. Maccus froze.

"I am the sea," Jones growled, before walking off. It was all black for a few seconds, and Maccus regained his sight. He caught himself on the railing, panting. No. He couldn't.

He looked up again, a noise snapping him from his daze. The survivors were lined up aboard the _Dutchman_ since the other ship was in complete shambles. He ran to catch up with the captain, nearly missing his duty.

"Where do you want this welp?" snarled the navigator as the captain passed.

"Brig." Jones practically tossed the word at him, not even bothering to look. He was infuriated.

Maccus finally caught up.

"What of the survivors?" he asked. But he could have guessed the answer, as if it was the captain's will inside his own head.

Jones looked at the kneeling, bloody men for only a moment.

"There are no survivors."

As he walked away in an angered huff, Maccus stepped forward and gave the nod. He barely felt alive. The axes came down, the bodies were thrown overboard, and it was all over. But it kept replaying in his mind, like a sour taste he couldn't wash out of his mouth. Maccus stumbled over to the railing, barely able to stand. The darkness overtook him for even longer than the last time. His belly was searing. Bile had been lurking in his throat all morning. He let it out over the railing when nobody was watching.

He heard the captain call the navigator up to the forecastle deck. The navigator. God, he hated that man. Of all the godforsaken men he'd ever torn to shreds, Maccus regretted not doing the same to that horrible bollocks-brain.

He found himself glaring across the ship at him, only watching as Jones gave him the order to chart a course for Isla Cruces. He turned back around and looked down, aiming to find something less suspicious to scowl at, but his gaze landed on his hands.

No.

They weren't _hands._

It was some dream, some awful dream. His hands, those leathery, worn, strong hands; they weren't his. Whatever he saw last night, it was all a lie. He couldn't have ever been human, and he never would be. Not after what he did to her.

_No._

He didn't want to even begin to think about her.

_God._

He was a monster. There was no other truth. He had been wrong to even try to defy Jones. He could never change what he was. It was hopeless to try to be any different, to try to reject what already existed. He was incapable of anything but evil. He could not care for anyone. He had nothing in him but rage.

He couldn't bear it. He couldn't even bear to think of her face, caked in dirt and sweat, nothing clean about it, and her eyes, pleading, overflowing with tears. Her voice. That voice that was beautiful, that voice that was like freedom, music in his ears, the way it danced when she was so pissed at him. And then, the brokenness of it, the horrible deadness in it when she sobbed, when she could not even bear to speak, and all because of him. He couldn't bear to imagine it. But he couldn't shake it from his head. It echoed in the caverns of his soul, haunting him, tormenting him, and he'd never forgive himself for it, how he'd marred her, how he'd utterly destroyed her, how he'd ripped her voice out of her very throat.

How he _loathed_ himself.

He wanted everything to kill himself for it. He would have rather died. He never wanted this. His world suddenly filled up with darkness, and he almost keeled over, the thought of his own lashes terrifying him, and yet, he still longed to drop everything, to lose it all, his life even, if he could only hear her, to feel her voice hit him, to grab her and rile her up so much she lost it with him, like an enraged little woman. _God, he loved her._

He looked up, a pain in his throat.

_But how could he?_

It was not possible. Not for him. Not for a mangy, barbaric monster who lusted for nothing but the blood of innocent human beings. Oh, no. Not for the man who called himself her protector and yet did to her the very thing he longed to protect her from. Not for the demon from hell, the hopeless creature who was never a man to begin with.

_Not for him._

_Not for him..._

_Not for him…..._

But what eyes could he cherish more? What first made him believe he had a heart? How did he willingly fall from such a damnable height to hit so low? What could have held him back from such a fate? What could have chained his wretched heart from loving her? From trying? From hoping?

_What would make a monster_

_Forget himself,_

_Loathe himself,_

_And tear out his own wretched, heartless chest_

_In hopeless search_

_Only to fail her,_

_But yet_

_Pursue still?_

_And what still_

_Would make a monster_

_Forget_

_His nature,_

_His master,_

_His very life?_

"Oh, God," he moaned.

_A monster_

_Still a monster_

_Always,_

_A hopeless_

_Bloody beast._

_And yet,_

_Still he longs,_

_For the heart of a man_

_In order to love_

_A woman._


	22. Chapter 22

Geneva spent the day working in the hold. Bootstrap was gone. She knew no one else. Not that she would have liked talking to him anyway.

She wasn't sure she even knew how to talk anymore. It seemed that the continuous lugging suited her more. She didn't have to hear voices. She didn't have to speak. All that was required of her was that she picked up cargo and carried it wherever she was pointed to carry it.

The hold smelled rotten. It filled her senses, her entire soul. It made her want to die.

But she felt dead already.

She couldn't throw up anymore. She couldn't seem to feel anything but pain. It was suddenly apparent that her whole life had been nothing but a confusing dream, and she had only just now been awakened. The happiness she thought she experienced was not happiness at all. Victory had no promise of such a prize. She understood now. Contentment did not exist. In fooling men and granting her own passage all those years, she had deceived herself the most. Her existence was founded upon repression and melancholy betrayal. How could she have hoped to escape that fate? That fate which bound her in the first place?

She dropped a powder keg by the others on the gun deck. She reached up. Her hair was greasy and short. The length nearly startled her. It was all short. How could she forget? Even if she wanted to?

She turned out of the room, out into the hall, and a shadow blocked the end. She stopped and looked up, half dead. The navigator.

"You're comin' ashore," he said. She looked down and said nothing in reply. She had forgotten how to speak, how to think. She was numb to the world. She did not move.

The navigator, with burning impatience, chose easily against suppression and grabbed her by the arm, yanking her across the hall toward him, and she hit his body hard, his hands already up her shirt, and she panicked weakly, already reduced to helpless cries, thrashing uselessly, and he slammed her against the filthy wall and forced a hand down her trousers, and she screamed, tears pouring down her face, and suddenly, his body was yanked away, and Palifico grabbed her, gruffly pulling her across the room, and she couldn't see a thing through her tears, so weak she collapsed to her knees on the floor, but she still heard above her, Palifico's voice in a distinct, low snarl; "I may not be your superior, but you're just as much scum as I am, so you'll follow your orders, and you'll let her follow hers." His hand came down and hoisted her to her feet again, and she was pulled briskly up the stairs to the main deck, into the sunlight, and then up the stairs to the catwalks, right up to the side of the boat, where he shoved her to the railing and she caught herself. The waves lapped and sprayed at the hull, and she slowly focused her gaze across the sea.

An island had appeared, just across the reef. But she didn't bother to figure out where they were. She didn't want to know. The question didn't even come to mind. She slumped backwards, but Palifico pushed her forward and she fell onto the railing and pulled herself up, blankly staring at the island. Then, it finally came to her.

_What was that?_

She squinted weakly. _Isla Cruces._ About a day's sail from Isla de Pelegostos.

Isla Cruces. She looked down at the waves. _Why Isla Cruces?_

She looked behind her. Palifico was no longer there.

Suddenly, the ship was dipping forward. She hadn't even heard the command. She grabbed the balusters and hung on until the water had flown up above her head, and she pushed off the railing and into the water. It was bright and clear, a brilliant blue. She swam upward and surfaced, and for once she didn't have to push her hair away. She could see.

The tide was low. She could make it ashore quickly. She began to swim as hard as she could muster, and she reached the sand quickly. When she stood on the beach, she expected to see the rest of the crew already there, right ahead of her.

But they weren't.

She stopped.

What were they doing here?

Had she just marooned herself?

No, the navigator said she was coming ashore. Palifico said she had orders. But she never received orders. None that she ever heard anyway.

She looked back out at the ocean. Nothing. Nobody was following behind her either.

She looked down at the white sand, up at the treeline, the thick, green brush, reaching up toward the cloudless blue sky.

_Was she free?_

She looked back inland.

_Yes._

She bolted across the sand, as fast as her legs could carry her, right into the brush. She jumped over plants, around trees, deeper and deeper, and she came out into a clearing in the middle of the wood until she ran right into a man.

They both tumbled over, and Geneva sat up fast, looking across the ground, and the man looked up from the ground, but it wasn't a man. Her blonde hair tumbled over her shoulders, and her face lit up with confused recognition when she met eyes with Geneva.

"Are you…?" she asked. Geneva blinked, frozen. It was Elizabeth. Elizabeth Swann. Her skin had become a shade darker, likely thanks to the sun. She was wearing men's clothing, everything from her shoes to her hat.

"Geneva?" Elizabeth inquired, hardly able to believe her eyes. "Is that you?" She was shocked. Geneva stood up, silent, staring carefully at her, and Elizabeth stood up after her, looking at her up and down, confusion written all over her face.

"What's happened to you?" she asked, and Geneva's eyes widened ferociously. Her lips curled into a wretched snarl.

"Nothing's _happened_ to me!" she hissed abominably, and Elizabeth took a moderate step back.

" _Who_ made you think this all just _happened_ to me?" Geneva demanded slowly, dangerously. Elizabeth was nearly cowering. Fearful confusion filled her eyes, and she shook her head quickly in a panicked effort to calm the air.

"Nobody!" she stammered, and Geneva stopped. It wasn't Elizabeth's fault. That was an issue better dealt with in other ways, with other people.

"How did you get here?" Geneva demanded at her, but much more calmly this time. "Why are you here?"

Suddenly, two scraggly men came rushing out of the brush and into the clearing. They took one look at Geneva and stopped dead in their tracks, both letting out a terrified yelp.

"You?" said the short one, backing right up a few steps.

"How did _you_ get here?" the tall one asked shakily. Geneva could only stare at them. Why were _they_ here? Something was off. She glanced down. They were both holding a small, gray chest engraved with odd designs.

Geneva's breath hitched.

"What's in that chest?" she whispered, eyes locked on it. Elizabeth turned and looked at Pintel and Ragetti, hesitating. The two didn't respond. Geneva turned and looked at Elizabeth with sudden urgency.

" _What's in that chest?!"_ she repeated, loudly and forcefully. Elizabeth jumped, startled.

"The heart of Davy Jones," she stuttered quickly. The information slipped right out amidst her fright. The sea lioness was completely mad.

But Geneva's attention had been redirected. Her eyes were wide with realization. She was almost shaking.

"They're here," she breathed, almost inaudibly. Elizabeth gave her a funny look.

"They?" she asked, but Geneva wasn't listening. There were too many thoughts rushing through her head to pay attention. She had to find a boat. Elizabeth and the idiot duo had gotten to the island in some kind of rowboat. Geneva would take it and row out to sea for all she cared. She was getting out of there. Nothing would take her back to the _Dutchman_. Absolutely nothing.

She had to run. The crew was after that chest, and she couldn't be anywhere near it. Her eyes flitted to the treeline. The beach. She had to go back to the beach.

Suddenly, an ax came hurtling through the trees, and Geneva sprang away. It lodged into a trunk only inches away from Elizabeth's head. Geneva whirled. No. She wouldn't be caught.

The crew was crashing through the brush toward them. Geneva stood up fast and bolted. The beach. She only had to make it to the beach.

She saw the white sand peeking through the trees. She pushed harder. Her legs were killing her. But footfalls rushed up behind her, and she turned.

She was tackled to the ground, and the two of them began rolling down the hill toward the beach. _No!_ She _would_ get away! Geneva found her bearings mid roll, braced herself on whoever it was, and began punching the daylights out of him. He started roaring, and they crashed into the sand at the bottom, rolling in separate directions. She was quite sure she had already broken his nose, and when she looked up, the he was already on his feet and upon her. _The bloody navigator._ She tried to get up, but he shoved her back down and began whaling on her. He got her hard in the jaw, and she got an arm free and rammed her fist right into his bloated fish eye. He shrieked, and blood got everywhere. She finally shoved him off and kicked him straight in the groin, as hard as she could muster, and he howled like a wounded dog.

She could have done much worse to him, but she had no time. She had to get away. She kicked a load of sand into his face and bolted down the stretch of the beach. She could see a rowboat, and she only charged faster.

A roar sounded from behind her. She glanced quickly over her shoulder. It was the navigator, up again and limping across the sand after her.  
"You think you can escape _me_ , you cunt?!" he screamed at her, the side of his face gorged in blood. She faced forward again, locking onto the rowboat. If she could make it there fast enough, she could be out to sea before he caught up.

Suddenly, a figure dashed out of the trees far ahead, making for the same boat. Geneva squinted.

All at once, she was stopped in her tracks, utterly shocked.

_Jack Sparrow?_

Her mouth hung open. She hadn't seen hi—

She was shoved down from behind and fell face first into the sand. She heard a sword, and instantly her hand was on her cutlass and she sprung up, brandishing it in rage. It was Koleniko again, sword out, blood running down his neck now, breathing in terrible grunts. It only made it worse. She swung first, right at him, nearly startling him, and they stumbled across the sand, kicking it up everywhere. In five strokes, she knocked him off his feet and kicked him in the face. He yelled in pain, but Geneva was already gone again, dashing across the sand like a madman toward that boat, toward Jack Sparrow, the man who had put her through all this ceaseless torment.

Jack looked up as he heard her approach. Right when he saw her, he let out a terrified cry.

"Bugga, bugga, bugga, _bugga!"_ he muttered hastily, and she charged across the sand, letting out an angry roar, and he ran to the other side of the boat, but she jumped and completely cleared it, landing right in front of him, sword already drawn. He pulled out his own to meet her, but all with a sheepish underlying tone, far too hopeful for negotiation.

"Geneva!" he laughed nervously. "Darling! It's been ages!"

She ignored him and swung, and he yelped, parrying gracelessly and turning to run around to the other side of the boat. Geneva followed right after him

"Love!" he hollered back over his shoulder. "If you're still mad about my leaving you in the middle of the ocean and all, I can explain!" Geneva caught him hard, and they stood in swordlock.

"You have _no_ idea what you've put me through!" she snarled viciously, shoving him backward. He retreated around the other side to keep his distance.

"Oh!" he replied uncomfortably, dodging another swing. "Well if you're not in the mood to talk about it, I'd just assume avoid the topic altogether!" Geneva caught him on the other side, and they engaged in a few swings before she shoved him back with a powerful stroke.

"Oh, I think you'd _love_ to hear!" Geneva growled, and Jack winced, glanced over his shoulder, and ducked. Koleniko charged in, and Geneva caught his swing with her blade, and shoved him into the boat. Jack had already run around to the other side, splashing hastily. The tide was coming in fast.

He whacked Koleniko in the head with his sword.

"Out, vermon!" he muttered impatiently. "My boat!" Geneva squinted. Jack was pushing the boat out into the sea.

"What are you doing?" Geneva asked suddenly. He looked up.

"Leaving," he replied simply, as if it were obvious.

"Without the heart?" she questioned. Koleniko halted. Jack looked at Geneva, and quickly glanced away in an effort to conceal his answer. But it was too late.

"You already have it," she blurted out. She could sense it. Koleniko looked right at her and then back at Jack. But Sparrow was already fleeing across the sand in the opposite direction, and Geneva was in hot pursuit before Koleniko could even react.

Jack made it halfway to the forest before she finally got too close, and he had to turn and bat her away. Up ahead, Elizabeth and the two swabbies were just coming out of the trees, being pursued by a ghastly horde. Things were getting far too dicey.

Jack was forced to turn and fight her.

"Love," he asked her above the clang of their swords. "I fail to see any rhyme or reason for your violence toward me." No response. He narrowly avoided a swing.

"If _I_ have the heart," he continued more quietly, parrying. "Then you can go free! Terrorize whoever you'd like all over again!"

She suddenly swung harder. It nearly disarmed him.

"But if _you_ have the heart," she replied lowly, merciless look on her face. "You'd be free, too. And I don't fancy that too much."

Jack made an uncomfortable face. He avoided another swipe.

"Perhaps it's best we put our differences behind us, darling," he suggested with a nervous smile.

Geneva's eyes narrowed. "You chose your fate long ago, Jack," she said darkly, teeth clenched. "Today is the day I promised you would rue!"

Jack winced. "Could we possibly invoke a rain check on that?"

She swiped at him hard. He retreated, nearly tumbling. She was incredibly strong now. Jack had no idea how this came to be. She had been terrifying before, but now, she had an intimidating amount of brawn. Just what had happened to her aboard the _Dutchman_?

The horde had nearly surrounded the two swabbies and the blonde with trousers. She was evasive, almost as evasive as Geneva. One-on-one combat would have proven deadly with her, but Maccus never had a chance to fully engage. The crew was acting as a mangy pack, hardly thinking. An opening would never present itself.

Maccus shoved past and shouldered through. He would make an opening if he had to. That kind of offensive maneuver would have worked in seconds, especially with a huge opponent.

There was break. He charged right through, barreling past the other men, locked straight on her, when suddenly, he was flat on his face in the water.

He pushed himself up, groaning. It was blurry. Everything hurt. He stumbled and stood up after a few seconds. A massive water wheel was rolling out to sea. The blonde and the two swabbies with the chest were getting away, dashing through the shallows. Even further out, Sparrow was fighting Geneva. No, perhaps it was the other way around. Geneva was fighting Sparrow.

Maccus stared. He hadn't seen her for a whole day maybe. He had done one hell of a job teaching her to use a sword. She was simply terrifying. Her stance was intimidating, powerful, everything she never used to be. She easily kept Sparrow on the defensive, and the navigator was out there too, bumbling around after them, uselessly trying to keep up.

The crew was advancing across the beach, further into the water. Maccus followed. But he couldn't stop watching her. Sparrow was running for his life now, Geneva tearing after him relentlessly. All that time ago, she had claimed she wanted to fight him. But things had changed. There was no question about it. She wanted a kill.

The crew was nearly upon them. The navigator was trying to get a swing in. Maccus smirked. How pissed he must have been that she was taking away his chance to fight. She was a sheer joy to watch.

Sparrow suddenly made a break for the rowboat. He ran right past Koleniko. Geneva let out a frustrated roar and dashed after him, and when she got to Koleniko, she grabbed his sword right from his mangy hands and bolted. God, nothing was stopping her. She had come too far.

The navigator snapped at her in anger and chased right after her, wanting his sword back. Maccus couldn't hear them over the ruckus of the crew. Water splashed everywhere. The navigator tried to tackle her. There was a skirmish. Then, she stabbed him right through the thigh with his own sword.

If Maccus had been less composed, perhaps he would have laughed. He almost smiled, but the quartermaster had seen her, too.

Geneva let go of his sword. Koleniko was howling now, and he collapsed to his knees in the water, sword still in his leg, screaming unspeakable obscenities at her. She didn't even flinch. She had finally decided to stand up for herself. And it felt fantastic.

"Stay out of my way," she spat down at him expressionlessly, and he didn't answer, mainly because he couldn't hear over his own wailing.

"You!" roared a voice suddenly. She looked up. The quartermaster. _No._

Her insides went cold. She had just done herself in. There was no escaping now.

"You've earned yourself plenty o' lashes for that!" he yelled at her, starting toward her. She didn't have time for this. She glanced at the rowboat. Jack was getting away with her boat. That was her only way out.

She faced the quartermaster, sword brandished, teeth clenched. Only a few strides to go. Ready to swing, anger surging through her, fire in her eyes.

But then, something slammed into the side of her head, and the ocean hurled up from underneath her, right into her face.

* * *

  
  
Maccus hoisted her body up out of the water. The quartermaster halted. Maccus gave him a nod.

"I've got her," he muttered, and the man seemed satisfied. As soon as his superior had turned away, Maccus tossed her toward shallower water. She landed face up, nose and mouth above the water.

_Was he really doing this?_

God, what an idiot he was. He would never be able to make anything up to her. Never. He hardly expected to. She didn't even have to know he cared for her. It was probably best that she didn't.

He turned away, swallowed a painful grimace, and swung harshly at another enemy. She would never know. And that suited him just fine. It was all he could do for her. For her, a lying, cheating, deceptive sea lioness who, just under the surface, was nothing but a hiding, cowering, hurting little woman.

* * *

  
Geneva slowly opened her eyes, and the sunlight blinded her. Water lapped against her head. She was just laying in the ocean.

She groaned and sat up. The side of her head was throbbing painfully. She rubbed her eyes and looked around, finally able to see.

She was a several yards away from the commotion. She had no idea how she'd ended up over here. She stood up, and suddenly realized that she had lost her sword. She dashed through the shallows, toward the fight, frantically looking to see where she'd dropped it.

After a few yards, she had found it. As soon as she picked it up out of the water, she looked up, ready to make an escape.

But then she saw him.

What messy clothes he wore. Certainly he had let them go foul. They used to look so much more grand. What a gnarled, hairy face. A natural disguise, but undoubtedly, underneath that beard, there was a face that had always been clean. What a respectable stance! Such coached swordplay! Indubitably, this was the shadow of a formerly high-class man.

He stopped at the rowboat. Nobody was watching. He fumbled with something inside, and suddenly, he had an object in his hand, about the size of his fist.

_The heart._

Geneva grinned.

What a delightful new toy.

* * *

 

Norrington dashed through the trees like a terrified fox, the chest in his arms. He had no clue if this was going to work. But it had to.

He could hear the surging mob tearing through the brush behind him. He glanced back. A young boy with choppy, dirty red hair and face smeared with filth, ahead of all the rest, sword drawn. Norrington whirled around and ran faster. He had to get out of there.

Perhaps, if he dropped the chest, they'd stop chasing him. Of course. That was what they were after. He'd just keep running. It would work.

He dropped the chest, and kept going and going, faster and faster. The yells became distant, but he still heard a pursuer. He glanced back again. The boy from before. Who was this child? Was he part of the crew? He was but a human, a mere boy.

Norrington pulled out his sword, turning, ready to fight, ready to end this charade, but the boy met his sword fast, and suddenly, the ex-commodore found himself flat on the grass, completely disarmed, his cutlass laying politely out of his reach. He looked up, hopeless fear in his eyes.

But the boy did not attack any further. He only stared down at Norrington's helpless form. He had mucky, bewitchingly red hair, and a young, beardless face, covered in a nasty layer of grime. But that wasn't it.

His eyes.

They were gold.

_What was he?_

Norrington was beside himself. The young man smiled. Those eyes studied him, like some kind of specimen.

"James... Norrington," he mused, as if he had known all along. But it was a female voice. A woman?

"How do you know my name?" Norrington demanded, barely able to form words. But she only looked right through him, those eyes, like a little girl's doll. He felt a shiver run down his spine involuntarily. It was hot as Hades, but his hair stood on end. Her eyes were unnatural. He could almost see himself in them, helpless on the ground, in those dark, endless pupils.

"Run fast, little sheep," she said, an eerie smile on her face. He couldn't tear his gaze away. That voice. It was like a mother. His mother. The same inflection, the same smile, the same squint of her eyes. She reached right into him with that voice, right down into his soul, and farther yet, to something deeper inside him than he had ever dared to investigate for himself.

"Run back to your shepherd." She was almost singing. He knew that voice more than he knew himself. It was unsettling and foreign, and yet he remembered it out of nothing, like he had always known it somehow. Those haunting eyes, that sweet voice, it all sunk into him, and he could only stare as she sang. A forgettable melody that he remembered, a lullaby that he never knew, a rhyme that his mother never sung. He never knew his mother.

"What things will a man do for power?" she hymned, before disappearing into the whispering brush, her voice still trailing softly, like a phantom, like an endless dream.

"What things a man will do for power,

But name it prospect instead.

How far will he go to save his own skin?

How nigh to betrayal shall he tread?"


	23. Chapter 23

She almost made it. She was only paces away from freedom, any kind of freedom. She would have been just as happy being stranded on that island, left to rot. She wouldn't have minded one bit. She didn't care what she had to go through to escape, what kinds of plots she became entangled in. She was fully prepared to take any chance she got; anything to get out of Jones' reach, and anything to get away from that damned ship.

But of course, the crew wouldn't leave without her. Before she even had the chance to hide, she was rudely snatched up by a larger man and dragged, kicking and screaming, back to the submerged ship.

She was pissed off royal, and she couldn't breathe. But the _Dutchman_ flew out of the water, and instantly, the _Black Pearl_ was right before her eyes, caught completely off guard. Geneva knew what was coming. Suddenly, it wasn't so bad that she had been brought back. This was something she wanted to watch.

The _Black Pearl_ was thrown into disorder at the sight of the _Dutchman_. But Jack, that poor rotten fool. Geneva smiled. And Jones, that wretched, pompous git. Neither of them had any idea what was truly coming.

Jack tried his hand at hopeless negotiation. Jones had no patience left.

Out came the cannons.

Jack's face went cold with regrettable discomfort, and he mumbled the order he should have given the moment he saw the _Dutchman_ spring from the depths in the first place.

"Hard to starboard?"

The whole ship echoed the order in panicked cries. It was chaos. The _Pearl_ turned and caught as much wind as it could and scrambled out. Jones was furious.

"Hard to starboard!" he howled at the helm, and then his awful gaze landed on the first mate.

"Send his beloved _Pearl_ back to the depths!"

"Fire all!" Maccus roared across the _Dutchman_ , no hesitation. The starboard cannons went off all at once, slamming the rear of the _Pearl_ as it retreated.

Geneva flew up to the catwalks and scrambled up the ratlines, higher and higher over the ship until she stood upon the highest yard. The wind billowed horribly, and the cannon smoke filled the air. But a terrible grin played across her face. A deadly laugh escaped her throat.

"Run," she chuckled darkly, watching as the _Pearl_ made it successfully out of cannon range. "Run from the jaws of fate, Jack." She glanced down below. The crew was already about the capstan. "See that you land exactly where you started."

The Kraken emerged from the depths, strong and angry. That beast would bring an end to her torture. It would snuff out the very bane of her existence, the man who damned her to these depths of despair, the selfish speck who dared challenge her. The leviathan was God, smiting the wicked in her life with one stroke, one enraged swing, ruining the world of the damnable to build up that of the damned. Her freedom was near. Once she was free of Sparrow, she would be free to destroy everything that stood in her way otherwise. The beast raged at the _Pearl_ , who did her best to fend it off, but their attempts were in vain. Soon it was crawling over the side of the ship, jaws wide and unforgiving, nauseating breath pelting the deck, rotting every grain, spoiling every stomach, striking terror in every heart. They were all doomed.

Then, she felt it.

The wave of pain, even stronger than Barbossa's had been. Geneva nearly lost her footing atop the yard. She gripped the mast, barely holding back a scream of agony, a painful whimper surfacing instead. It was so wretchedly deep, so utterly immeasurable, so deathly raw. Her soul was being torn, severed, split at the flesh. Her legs were beginning to give, and the deck appeared below her, so far down her breath hitched. But for a moment, it almost seemed desirable, to plummet from such a height and splatter across the deck, no reserve, no cowardice, no tricks. To let go of the ropes meant death. To let go was to forfeit agony and despair. _Oh, the deep, abyssal despair._

And then, just like that, it was over. Jack Sparrow was finally dead.

She stood straight again, breathing hard. What was this thought? She looked out to sea, to the view of the Kraken swallowing up the _Pearl_. Where was the satisfaction? Where was the pride? The freedom? The sound of dropped shackles? The victorious cry to the heavens?

Where was the sea lioness' victory?

She breathed slowly now.

This wasn't over yet.

Her gaze fell to the deck below.

No man would withhold her triumph.

Not without blood.

* * *

  
Jones closed his spyglass.

"Jack Sparrow," he murmured. "Our debt is settled."

"The captain goes down with his ship," Palifico commented, and Maccus grunted in agreement.

"Turns out not even Jack Sparrow can best the devil!" he replied, mainly speaking toward Jones. He meant it. Somehow he meant what he said. But part of it felt forced. Wasn't he proud to be the first mate of the devil himself?

Of course he was.

As soon as Maccus had uttered those words, Jones turned sharply and faced him, eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"Open the chest," he muttered lowly, and Maccus and Palifico looked at each other, hesitating. They had already won. Sparrow was dead. What more was there to do?

Jones raised his voice, angered impatience in his eyes. "Open the chest!" he demanded, stepping right up to Maccus. "I need to _see_ it!" The words shook his very soul. Jones was looking right through him. Maccus turned hastily, nearly running, the rest of the crew scrambling after him. He brought the chest forward as instructed, placed it in on a crate, and turned the key. The deadlock was released in a deep, metallic churn. It felt so deeply filthy, so deep it could never be cleansed. Maccus stepped back. He couldn't open it. It was too much.

Jones pushed his way through the crew and up to the chest. Maccus watched, his heart beating out of control. Something was wrong. Jones hesitated, his slimy fingers just brushing the lid. Something was deeply wrong. Maccus felt it. His vision was darkening. Where was she; _where was she?_ He didn't know. Blackness circled him. He could barely see now.

"Damn you..." the captain growled, his voice trembling with rage. He spat up water. God, no. Maccus' vision cleared. The chest was empty. _Empty. No._ The deck shook violently. He shrank backward, stumbling over a cannon, pushing back in terror. _Oh, God, no._

"Jack Sparrow!" Jones roared at the heavens, and the whole crew recoiled. Jones would have their heads; all of them. And the very first would be Maccus'. There would be no mercy, no mercy for the dastardly first mate and his decrepit loyalty. This was it. Jones would send him to that horrible black pit, that abyss that threatened to swallow him, that pit full of snakes, that nightmare; that horrible hell, where the snakes would crawl up your insides, all over you, down your throat and into your soul; they'd eat you alive for all eternity, and you could never die, only become part of the wood, the termite, worm-infested wood of the hull, and you'd be eaten in mind, body, and soul, intestines and stomach, heart and face, neck and mouth from the inside out.

Jones slammed the chest shut, and in one swift movement, he stood and shoved it off the crate, making to exit the deck in a furious tantrum. The chest hit the floor with a clanging thud, and as Maccus laid eyes on it, he found his gaze landed on a pair of boots. He looked up, and there she stood. Not at all dismayed, nor confused, nor hurt. Not scared, nor intimidated. Not even surprised. Her face was completely calm, that young face that stood unbattered by Jones, undeterred by any cruelty of the devil, completely immune, showered in heaven's glory, and back to retrieve her rightful victory, back to pluck it from his very hand. Jones' demise was splayed across her beautiful eyes. She held every last ace.

"Hm," she mused, loud enough for the captain to hear, gaze falling daintily upon the fallen chest. "It's funny, isn't it? Some things just… disappear."

Maccus looked across the deck. Jones had stopped in his tracks, his back still turned.

"She knew about it the whole time!" Koleniko snarled at her, hurling his malicious blame at her with ease. "She said Sparrow had it, and then she had us chasin' after the whelp carryin' the empty chest! She led us all astray!" Geneva scoffed audibly, tickled, and the whole crew looked back at her.

" _I_ led you?" she remarked, and Koleniko's eyes narrowed spitefully. "Ha!" It was a true laugh, one that sang out. She had already won. "If _you_ knew Sparrow had the heart, then why did you follow me?"

Koleniko went stark quiet, growling. If he hadn't been injured, he would have attacked her right then and there.

She smiled. "But here's a hint, _good captain_ ," she continued, simply enjoying herself now. "If Sparrow _does_ have the heart, then why in heaven's name are you still standing?"

Jones turned to face her now, the look in his eye so prying that it threatened to open her right up. But she was far too experienced for that. She was the sea lioness.

"You have it!" Koleniko piped up again, frantically this time. He was in wretched standing with the captain now that he had been disabled. God, was he pathetic. He would say anything to restore his pride.

She laughed boisterously. "I have it?" She threw up her arms in easy surrender, a tickled grin across her face as she looked straight at the captain. "Feel free to check me! I was rendered heartless long ago."

But Jones did not order his men to search her. He only stared her down. She had sprung her trap, and he was fully aware of it.

"You know where it is," Jones said suddenly, low and angry. He reached her in three strides and towered over her, bottled anger in his breath. "You know _exactly_ where it is." But nothing could intimidate the sea lioness. She feared no one. She bent for no man. She wasn't intimidated by a man the size of the first mate, so why should she cower at the captain, who stood shorter still? She was far beyond this simplistic physical front.

She smiled.

"We have a winner," she murmured.

Jones hit her right across the face, and she went flying across the deck, slamming face first into the ground. But after only a moment, she pushed herself off the ground, chuckling as though it hadn't hurt at all.

"I hate to break it to you, Davy Jones," she simpered, still standing upon the high ground. "But you'll never beat it out of me. Have you forgotten who I am? I have _nothing_ to lose, and _everything_ to gain."

Jones turned and looked down at her. His eyes were calculating. Then, he glanced quickly at the first mate. Maccus' insides went cold. No.

"Do ya' now?" Jones seethed at her. No longer was he mindlessly angry. His horrible mind had twisted to a start. He would not be made a fool of.

Jones turned directly to the first mate.

"To the brig with her!" he growled. "No food!"

Maccus could barely breathe. No. He couldn't. He knew what happened to her when she didn't eat. He remembered how she had collapsed like a dead man on the deck, powerless and helpless. Jones was staring right through him. Those were his orders. This was it. It had to be him. It had to be the first mate who did it. Jones wanted to break her. And what other way was there? This was his only shot.

Maccus tried to inhale. He stood up. She was still lying on the deck. How could he do this? There was no way around it. But there was. All he had to do was get her through it all. He would still follow his orders. But he would get her through. Nothing would stop her. She had to make it.

"Oh, and first mate."

Maccus stopped. He could hear his own heartbeat, throbbing, pounding through his chest. Everything inside him was sucked out. He felt his stomach churn.

"I don't believe she'll be needing those rags."

His heart stopped.

_Her clothes?_

"Have I made myself clear, _first mate?"_

_Oh, God._

"Aye, sir." He swallowed the vomit in his throat. He had to keep it down. He had to. He had to do this. He could feel the snakes under his skin. Crawling up his arms.

The crew was slewing guffaws at this point. It was an uproar. He turned to her kneeling form. She wouldn't even look at him. Her expression was awful. He couldn't look at her face. If he did, he would charge right into Jones. He would plummet himself into the snakes. They would crawl up his neck, slither into his head, out through his ears. _He had no choice._

He picked her up and slung her over his shoulder. She didn't even fight him. She just let him carry her. She was letting him. He couldn't do this. The snakes filled his belly. They choked off his air. The darkness was all around him. He couldn't do this to her. He couldn't stand it. But he didn't stop. He didn't know how to.

The brig was horribly dark. He lit the lantern. Her body was limp. She could have been dead. She didn't even make a sound. The hissing was everywhere. God, he felt sick. He felt hot and cold, all at once. But every time he tried to turn away from it, there was nothing else to turn to. There was nothing else to grab onto, nothing else to grasp, nothing else to take and run with, nothing to seize. He'd never acted upon anything else but his orders. He had never faced anything outside the will of Jones. He didn't know how to.

He opened the gate to her cell and threw her down inside. She didn't bother to catch herself. God, why did he dare to watch? How ugly and twisted was he to watch her plummet from his grasp? She landed and bashed her head against the floor, but she healed herself up again and sat up, leaning against the bars and hugging her legs. She did nothing more. She wasn't protesting. She wasn't fighting him. God, she could have put up a glorious fight. He could feel it in his bones. He had taught her exactly how to do so: precisely where to aim, exactly where to hit, and exactly how to make sure it hurt. She could have fought like a madman. She probably wouldn't have won. But nonetheless, she could have really pummeled him good. She could have sent him away with more bruises than he had fingers. But she did nothing.

He could only stare at her. The darkness curled in, all around, but he wouldn't look away. He couldn't act. He couldn't do this.

The hissing filled his ears, his head, everything. The serpents, those bloody, slithering things, those dreadful, poisonous jaws, licking right at his neck, ready to bite the roof of his mouth and swallow his jaw, filling his throat. He had to do it. What other choice did he have? What could he possibly do? He couldn't defy his captain. He couldn't ignore his orders. He didn't have the authority to do any of that. He never had. He was nothing. He was a pawn. He was a faceless, nameless, purposeless piece in a game, a puny cog. He had no voice. He had no thoughts. He was nobody.

How could a nobody love?

How could a nobody think?

How could a nobody even exist?

She only sat there. She wouldn't even look at him. It was like she was just waiting for him to do it. Not a tear fell from her eyes. Her expression was cold, dead, completely empty.

The darkness was creeping in further, covering his eyes, his face, his whole body, swallowing him like the dreadful ink of the leviathan, the Kraken, the horrible beast that Jones pruned and cooed so well; like smoke from a rotting pyre, sent out to sea to die in the waves of endless, despairing cold, where even the depths of the deepest love didn't dare reach, and where his still pathetic soul had the cowardly audacity to passively deny the very demon that gave him existence, the rotten Beelzebub who promised him an escape from hell in exchange for his soul, only to give him exactly what he feared and tenfold the sin. He couldn't do it.

No;

He _wouldn't_ do it.

Suddenly, his soul was dangling over the pit, over the hissing, frothing, their snapping at his flesh from below, their desire to crawl up his back and into his head. He could feel them, their heat, their horrible breath, slithering all over themselves.

_He tore her clothes from her_

_In easy,_

_Effortless_

_Rips._

_Not a word of_

_Protest._

_Not a shred_

_Of_

_Thought._

_Dignity's seams_

_Torn apart_

_And left_

_To waste;_

_To rot;_

_Naked,_

_Cold,_

_Alone,_

_And forsaken._

_All by his hand;_

_All in his hand._


	24. Chapter 24

Geneva shook. It was wet, cold, and dark. She had only been there for a few hours at most.

She was curled up against in the corner, cowering from the shadows. She didn't want to think anymore. She wanted everything to be away from this place. She would give anything. Anything to stop all the pain.

She didn't understand. She could take any beating. She could stand up after any blow. She had nothing to lose. She knew it.

And yet.

Under her feet, all around her naked, susceptible body, everything crumbled. Everything was slowly falling apart. Each and every existence came crashing down to rubble, and it all came barreling through her, building up a prison around her that she couldn't see out of, and everyone else could see in.

Why did he try?

Why had she even bothered?

Where had she fallen so low?

But she wouldn't think of him. She wouldn't let herself. Once, she had thought he stood beside her. Once, she even trusted him. But he never thought of her. He never cared. He only existed to tear her apart. And she let him. She wished everything that she was dead. Why did he just stare at her? Why did he stop after her clothes? Why didn't he tear her skin off too? Why didn't he stab her right through? Why didn't he break her neck like he always threatened to; why didn't he rip out her tongue and cut off her fingers for the hell of it? Why did he just leave her like this, to helplessly cower in fear and hopeless darkness? Why had he tried so hard; why had he built her up so high only to drop her?

She couldn't bear to look out into the brig. She had nothing to cover herself. Naked. Vulnerable. Everything watched her. God watched her. Nothing protected her from those eyes. She hid her herself in that little corner, where nothing could see her, nothing could hear her, and nothing could touch her. The figures in the darkness scared her. They would look like plants, moss, anything, and then they would move. Suddenly, they would be people, and she was terrified and hid her face.

She couldn't sleep. She only heard noises. She could only feel hands on her, hands all over her, feeling her, touching her, inside, holding her down as she screamed, suffocating her. She would not sleep. Her dreams only waited for her. The nightmares stalked her in her own head. They held her down and beat her with their hands, hands everywhere. She would never sleep again.

It must have been the middle of the night. She hadn't moved for hours. Her energy did nothing for her at this point. She was already weak from Sparrow's death. She was as good as dead, and yet, not quite dead enough.

And then, she heard a noise. She froze up. She hid her face. She didn't exist. The steps came through the darkness. She was not here. She was dead.

She heard something hit the floor. Something wet. It made her jump. She couldn't look. The body lingered. Then, the steps retreated slowly back into the darkness, and it was quiet again. She wouldn't move. Not an inch.

The hours passed. Morning came. The light peeked through the floorboards above just barely, scaring the shadows back only a few marginal inches. She lifted her head. She hadn't slept a lick. As soon as she looked up, an awful stench filled her nostrils. She almost choked. Her eyes adjusted to the near darkness. She shivered, and slowly turned her head to the side. There was a fleshy mass on the floor, in her cell, right inside the bars, flies swarming all over it.

A freshly rotting fish.  


	25. Chapter 25

The sun had risen over the first yard.

Maccus retired from the helm. The morning was underway. He descended from the quarterdeck, and as he reached the main deck, Jimmy Legs lumbered past him, cat o' nines in hand. Maccus halted him.

"Where's that headed?" he asked, and Jimmy Legs shrugged. The usual business.

"Quartermaster tells me that the wench owes five lashes," he replied simply. "Me thinks it proper since she nigh impaled the navigator."

Maccus suddenly felt something knot real hard in his chest. Jimmy Legs was turning to go.

"Now wait just a minute," Maccus snapped after him, before he could stop himself. "I took care o' that already."

Jimmy Legs huffed in disappointment, but stopped and waited anyway. Maccus turned toward the quarterdeck, scowling. Why couldn't he hold his own damn tongue? This was all ridiculous. He hadn't taken care of jack shit. He had just lied about performing a duty. But he didn't stop himself.

"What do you mean, she don't get no lashes?" snapped the quartermaster disgustedly. "I said she would, an' she will."

"That ain't gonna do nothin' for her now," Maccus argued.

"What the hell do you mean?" the quartermaster spat, eyes narrowed. "It does plenty! Jimmy Legs! Get on with it!"

"No!" Maccus ordered. The bosun had just started walking, but he stopped himself once more. Maccus couldn't believe himself. _What was he doing?_

" _No?"_ the quartermaster repeated slowly. His eyes narrowed. "Pray tell, _why_ not?" This was bad. He could have done this any other way. He could have just taken the whip from Jimmy Legs. But no, he resorted to feeding shit to the quartermaster, his own superior.

"She ain't got no strength as it stands," Maccus replied, trying to sound convincing. "She killed Jack Sparrow."

"What's that got to do with anything?" the quartermaster retorted.

"You know the legends. The sea lioness can't kill the victims she's done her eye trick on. If she does, it kills her."

"Well then why ain't she dead?"

Maccus swallowed.

"'Cause she didn't kill him directly enough," he said without falter. The quartermaster grumbled sourly.

"She's barely conscious, though," Maccus continued calmly. "I saw her. Lashes won't do her any good."

The quartermaster heaved a troubled sigh. His nostrils flared in frustration.

"I'd say nearly dyin' is punishment enough," Maccus added. "Not to mention isolation."

"Isolation, my arse," the quartermaster muttered. "That ain't lashes."

"It may not be," Maccus conceded. "I tell you, she's barely alive down there. Lashes would be a waste o' time."

"Lashes ain't no such thing!" Jimmy Legs complained from below on the main deck. The quartermaster turned sharply to the man.

"You'll bite your damn tongue, you weevil!" he ordered, and Jimmy Legs went silent again. The quartermaster turned back to Maccus and huffed begrudgingly.

"Just this once," he growled. "If _you_ says it ain't worth it, then it ain't." Maccus breathed.

"But it _will_ be the next time she slips up," the quartermaster growled. "An' all it'll take is one foul move. That bitch has been askin' for it for far too long."

Maccus grunted in response and swallowed another grimace, turning to the rigging ties. This was absurd. He couldn't believe he'd just done that. He was falling to new lows by the minute. He couldn't keep doing this. He had promised himself that she would get off that ship. That was what she was after, and that was what he would secure. Nothing would get in her way. He had vowed that to himself, and he had meant it. But now he was protecting her. Now he was making this personal. He was going out of his way to protect her from things that she didn't need protecting from. Sure, she had suffered a blow from Sparrow's death, but she wasn't dying by any means. Lashes wouldn't hurt her too horribly at all. She could heal herself easily, quick as a flash. He was blatantly lying to his superior now. And for what?

"Well."

Maccus looked up. It was Palifico, arms crossed, eyes on him.

Maccus grumbled. "Well, what?" Palifico wasn't fazed.

"You know exactly what."

Maccus grunted. "Go ta hell."

"I've still got eighty five years to go, so don't rush me."

Maccus growled but didn't move. It was a standoff. And Palifico was far from stupid.

"What are you doing?" the coral asked him lowly. Maccus hesitated.

"I ain't gonna stand here—"

"Damn it, you're not fooling me, Maccus," Palifico muttered harshly, stepping close so that only he could hear. "An' if you're not foolin' me, you're not foolin' Jones either. Like fuck you whipped her. You've been smuggling fish to her damn cell."

"Then carry me to hell in a fucking handbasket, you tattlin' rigger. I'll go easy."

_God, what was he saying?_

"Jones'll make sure it ain't bloody _easy_ and you know it."

Maccus held his tongue. He had already said too much.

Palifico sighed and turned away to tend to his chores. He paused after a few paces, turned his head halfway back to the first mate, and hesitated.

"Just be careful. That's all I'm gonna say."

Maccus turned away and crossed the ship. How in bloody hell Palifico knew he snuck fish down to her, he didn't know. But he was right. If Palifico knew about it, the captain most certainly knew about it. But that didn't help him make much sense of the whole thing. If Jones knew, why did he do nothing to stop it? Why did he let it all happen? Why did he allow such blatant insubordination to persist?

God, it was too much. This was becoming worse by the minute. Maccus had thought he would be able to just do it all in secret, that he could help her just enough to get her out alive. But now he was dragging himself into places he couldn't back out of. He was doing things that jeopardized his position, his very life. But why?

Was the fear of lashes becoming weaker? Did the pit of snakes not make him cower? Why was he able to stand firm in the face of damnation, in the face of imminent death, and still risk his whole existence for something as frivolous as love?

Did he love her?

Did the cat o' nines scrape away everything, flesh from bone, all to expose an empty man, a heartless beast, with nothing but a pathetic, clinging desire to love? What was he that made him terrified of death, surrendered completely to that fear, and yet, still willing to dive further, if only to see her walk free? What was it that made him forsake himself, his own freedom, wholly won over by her, all to let her walk away, off the face of his lonely world, never again to be witnessed in her full glory, never to return, never even to thank him for such a favor?

Was it the heart of a man?


	26. Chapter 26

Geneva could see. Ever since she had tried it out on Will, she had learned to better control her visions. And now she could see where her only hope lay. James Norrington. Stranded on that island. Heart in hand. A tower of black smoke, rising high above the trees. He was her only hope. But he had a superior. A real superior. A real chance.  
  
"Go," she whispered weakly, only audible to herself in the darkness. The tides were coming in around him. Sails hovered on the horizon. Almost there. Almost free.  
  
"Run, little Jim. Let no one hold you back. Let no one overshadow you. Let the chains of all authority fall from your soul. Take back what is yours, and leave for me what is mine."


	27. Chapter 27

Fourteen days.

Every second. Every drip. Every creak. She counted it all.

For fourteen days, the water dripped and the ship's hold creaked. For fourteen nights, at the most godforsaken hour, when not even the muscles dared to move, a fresh, bloody, hacked-off half of a fish dropped through the bars of her cell. For fourteen days, Geneva sat in the brig, waiting.

She knew exactly what she was waiting for. Nothing drew her attention away from it. Norrington had done exactly what she bid him to. She had seen the face of his master, and she had her plan, gripping it close to her hard and fast as iron. She had etched that face into her mind like stone. Jones could not outwit her. He could not stop her. She was going to get off this ship, and if she couldn't, she would sink the whole bloody thing, crew and all. Jones' patience had run its course. Hers was only just beginning the endeavor. Soon, the captain would have no other choice. She was the only one who knew anything about the heart. He would have to give up. He couldn't feign control. This was the sea lioness' ultimate victory. This was what she had always lived to see. The day she bested the devil himself was the day she stood atop all the world.

She sat up. The rotting meat let out a horrible stench. She refused to eat any of it, even while it was fresh. She would take nothing from this ship. Not a morsel. Not a shred. She would not be helped by them. She would soon devastate every last soul on this ship—each and every one of them. There would be no mercy. Jones had sealed that fate.

The door to the brig opened. Her eyes traveled to the stairs. A bright lantern descended, and multiple footsteps followed. She didn't bother to move.

The men reached her cell. She turned her head and looked at them blankly.

"On your feet," said the man called Angler. Hadras unlocked her cell door and opened it wide.

When she didn't move, Angler marched into the cell and yanked her off the ground, and they dragged her up the stairs and out of the brig, all the way to the captain's cabin. When they reached the door, they thrust her inside, and she hit the floor hard. A huge, heavy piece of sail patch landed on her bare body, and then, the door was slammed behind her, and she was alone.

She stood, pulling the sheet around herself. The room dripped and heaved, and the steaming organ only seemed to hiss at her. But she had no fear. She was going to win.

The captain stood behind a cluttered desk, covered completely in maps and navigational instruments. She only watched him from where she stood.

He was completely silent. He raised his head from the maps, and his face was filled with sleepless, blood-spilling choler.

" _Where_ is the heart?" he growled lowly. His patience was balancing on a precipice. One word outside his will and he would shred her soul, send the navigator to tear her apart, and then the first mate to finish her off.

_God._

She hated the first mate.

That man that taught her everything also taught her to fear. That man who reeked of prohibition gorged himself with rum and raped her of her life, of her trust, of her very will. That wretched being. That abusive tool of a figure, holding so much, only to drop it all to lick the boots of this son of a bitch.

"I do not know its location," she replied dully. It was true. She had no clue _where_ it was. Even if she did, she would never tell him. She would watch Jones' ruin. And there was nothing he could do about it. He had done all of this to her. He had sent all the horrors into her nightmares. He was the true monster.

Jones slammed his claw arm down on the desk and shoved the maps away in a boiling rage. They flew everywhere. Geneva didn't even flinch.

"You _know_ where it is!" he roared, completely dumping the whole table over with a horrible crash. "You _know_ who has it! I can see it all over your wretched face!" He came around the overturned desk faster than she could brace herself and snatched her by the neck, holding her high into the air. "You'll _tell_ me where it is, or so help you, I'll send you to the depths myself!"

"That'll do you a lot of good, damn you!" she cursed, teeth bared, legs flailing, gasping, eyes wild with furious inferno. "Considering _who_ has it!"

Jones' eyes widened, and his brow furrowed. He dropped her to the floor, and she coughed and sputtered, slowly catching her breath again. He waited, standing above her. Finally, she could breathe enough to speak.

"There's a powerful man who's just taken possession of your beloved heart," she continued, needing no provoking. "Hand delivered by a willing subject to an influential lord, likely hailing from England." Jones' eyes became wide. "He was first after Sparrow's compass, but with the heart now in his arsenal, his plans have undoubtedly undergone change." The captain snarled, but Geneva was ahead of him. "Your demise lies with him. And as it stands, I see no good reason to interfere with that." Nothing she revealed was information in need of guarding. It was simply something that made her an important tool to Jones, an offer that he couldn't possibly refuse. Every word she said now had meaning to him. She was suddenly far too powerful, and Jones was running out of time. She was the only connection he had to that heart, the only hope he had of restoring his prized and most hated possession. Soon, he would have no other choice but to let her go. And the time was approaching fast. In little time at all, Norrington's master would reveal himself, and in that forthcoming event, the _Flying Dutchman_ would be forced to bend completely to the will of this lord. Soon, Jones' world would come crashing down, devastatingly destroyed, completely obliterated, toppling gloriously, all in the wretched, remorseless wake of Calypso's sea lioness.


	28. Chapter 28

The news of the heart reached every crevice of the ship. It came as an alarming blow. The reach of the sea lioness had suddenly become so devastatingly far that even the devil had been bested. The disaster only fueled the crew's resentment for her, incited by Jones' utter and complete rage at her recurring victory. The fact that he could no longer had control over his life left him completely desolate, made the blooming fool in this wretched plot.

Just as promptly, the heart's location was made known, surfacing a mere day after the identity of its landlord.

"Navigator!" came Jones' voice. It was sharp and urgent. Maccus looked up from his work, and Koleniko rushed up to the quarterdeck, his leg wound almost completely healed up now.

"I have been summoned," the captain snarled hastily. "Chart a course northwest!"

"Northwest?" Koleniko asked, confused by the captain's lack of specificity. "What's the destination?"

"Do it!" Jones snapped, and Koleniko turned swiftly and complied. Maccus dropped his work and turned to look at the sails. The wind was not in their favor.

He turned and headed up to the quarterdeck. He trembled.

"Captain," he said. Jones' back was turned. "The wind does not favor our course. What will you have us do?"

" _Dive_ then."

"Aye, sir." Maccus took straight to the helm, and as soon as he had gotten behind the wheel, he barked out the order across the ship. Jones didn't bother to stay up on deck. His mind was plagued by the sea lioness' treachery. In all the torment he had thrown to her, through all the horror he had subjected her to, at the very hands of his first mate—the very man Jones had practically bred to ruin her—still she emerged; still she triumphed over all, regardless of what he slew to stop her. And now, he was being forced into subjective existence. He was to be a pawn, a tool, a trophy to wave around. It was unavoidable. And yet, he still struggled to defy his fate, and in all of his useless efforts to avert his imminent circumstances, he erroneously overlooked the dangerous and growing ambivalence of the first mate.

The man could taste her freedom. Her impending victory made it nearly impossible for Maccus to contain himself beneath his resentful guise. What joy he now grasped! She, the sea lioness—nay, the beautiful hope of his wretched life!—she was soon to be free! Free from all that held her down, at last escaping from her shackles with reckless abandon! He could cry joyously to the heavens! He could die happy! There was a God!

_A glad monster he was!_

_A glad, wretched abomination!_

_For in the wake of his captain's loss,_

_There stood his Hope!_

_And so,_

_All that she was,_

_All that he knew,_

_And all that would remain_

Would _be this;_

_A triumphant Hope,_

_A fiend's love,_

_And a beautiful sting._


	29. Chapter 29

Jones was beyond aggravated by the likes of Cutler Beckett. Maccus couldn't blame him. The lord was power hungry and persuasive, a threat detected far too late to avoid. Where Geneva had merely triumphed, Beckett soared, nigh godlike in comparison. He had all the right leverage; all the right tools; all the right words. And now, he was moving.

"That blasted peacock," Jones muttered, as soon as he had gotten behind closed doors with his most trusted mates. Before the men had a chance to ask, Jones had pulled out a soggy piece of paper that was likely very clean and crisp at one point.

"Your new orders are as follows;" Jones read. He was utterly seething.

"The _Flying Dutchman_ is now property of and in direct service to the East India Trading Company (EITC) under the authority of Lord Cutler Beckett, Governor of the EITC and duly appointed representative of His Majesty, King George II . The _Flying Dutchman_ will now abide by all rulings, orders, and regulations as set forth by the Company, newly of which are the following:

"The _Flying Dutchman_ will cease to make use of the leviathan it formerly used as a weapon, and will subsequently and promptly execute it;

"Upon receiving the command from the head of the EITC, the _Flying Dutchman_ will search for, pursue, and exterminate any pirate vessel;

"Upon receiving the command from the head of the EITC, the _Flying Dutchman_ will take captive any person or persons as specified by the EITC.

"Should any orders—both current and future—be ignored, the _Flying Dutchman_ will immediately be reinstated with EITC management."

Jones threw the wretched paper on his desk. Everyone in the room was speechless.

"Sir," Angler said finally, not sure what else to say. Jones turned sharply and faced them all.

"Get to it," he commanded darkly. None of them hesitated, and they all left his cabin, shouting orders. If there was one thing that Jones hated more than anything, it was being used.

* * *

 

Geneva could only smile.

She had heard every word. The newly appointed Admiral James Norrington of the East India Trading Company had been present at Jones' meeting with this Lord Cutler Beckett, all those weeks ago, giving her a way to listen in. Beckett fascinated with one hand and puzzled with the other. She wondered if the man had given himself the title of lordship. He certainly liked it—just about as much as Jack had liked his title of captain—and he took all liberties in using it whenever he wished.

But there was certainly power behind that name. He was manipulative; even more so than Barbossa had been. Geneva had never laid eyes upon a man of Beckett's caliber. His presence was overbearing, and his contracts were painfully impassible. Even the great Davy Jones had to bend to this lord. It was utterly charming.

But that wasn't the best part by any means. Every bit of ink on that contract that Jones was forced to sign was devastating to the captain. His beloved Kraken was dead now, and he could no longer sail to his own purpose. He was no longer a free-reigning terror on the seas. He was under the complete, lawful authority of this lord—a disposable tool at Cutler Beckett's crafty little fingertips—a mere pawn.

Oh, how Geneva adored cultivated animosity.

Now, she only had to wait until Jones was ripe for the taking. The time was near. Geneva was ready. All she had to do was summon him, to say his name, and then, just like that, her freedom would be in the palm of her hand.

She looked up at the ceiling of the brig. It was dark. Painfully silent. She smiled.

" _Davy Jones, I summon thee_

_To pause and bend your ear to me."_


	30. Chapter 30

"Three days."

She had summoned him, and by his honor, Jones was forced to bring her up from the brig again. But he knew nothing good would come of it.

"The Company will arrive within that time," Geneva continued easily, smiling as if she had already won. "And when they do, the peace aboard your pretty little sailboat will cease to exist."

"You think you can intimidate me, you witch?" Jones snarled viciously. But she only laughed.

"It was only a matter of time," she retorted. "You've destroyed every vessel in sight and killed every survivor. You brought this upon yourself. Beckett will arrive, see that you have no prisoners, and boot you off your own ship. Don't you see? You've only succeeded in making yourself useless to him."

Jones scowled. He didn't  _want_ to be useful to that peacock. He wanted to be left alone. But the sea lioness' threat was warning enough. Her voice rang out with wisdom well beyond her years. She had planned for all of this to happen. She was using these circumstances as a way out. She knew the absolute truth. Jones most certainly would  _not_  be left alone if he could not provide prisoners. His spiteful destructiveness had seemed like a good idea at the time, but now, it only left behind a sour taste. Useless pawns were not simply freed. They were made more useful, or they were destroyed.

"Don't let that happen," she stated, her gaze focused on the captain. "Beckett desires prisoners with links to piracy. And you can cater to that. Hand me over as a captive. You'll get to keep your ship, and you'll never hear from me again." Jones glowered.

"Like hell I won't," he snarled. " _Nothin'_  is keeping you from destroying me the moment you step off'a this ship."

Geneva squinted thoughtfully. Silence wavered over them like early morning, gray fog. Nothing was said, seemingly for hours. Her mind worked endlessly, searching. Then, finally, an idea came to her.

"Then I will  _fully_  restore your power," she said. She could see Jones' ears perk right up. "Hand me over as a prisoner and I will destroy the Company from the inside out. Your heart will be returned to your possession."

Jones was about to protest, but Geneva spoke before he could begin. "And," she added. "Should I attempt to betray you, as you so vehemently suggest, I will serve eternity aboard the  _Dutchman_  as penalty."

The captain narrowed his eyes. Geneva waited. This was it. This  _had_  to be it. This was what he wanted, the only price he would truly accept. She could see it in his eyes. But he was hesitating. She frowned. Troubled thoughts began to surface. Something wasn't good enough. What more could he possibly want from her? What else was there to give?

He turned his eyes to look up at her. Inside, there was a gleam that incited fear. She didn't like that gaze. She knew that glint.

"Just how  _badly_  do you want off this ship?"

Geneva paused. The tone in his voice. There was an underlying sound. A suggestion.

A hidden truth.

And then, she understood.

This was not a question of how badly she wanted to leave.

It was a testament of how badly Jones wanted to keep her there.

And by God,  _he would keep her there if it was the_ _ **last**_   _thing he did._

"I'll swear eternity right now," she shot out quickly, her voice intense and low. She would not let him look away. She would  _not_  give him time to think this over. "You'll hand me over, I'll finish the job. When—not  _if_ — _when_  the Company collapses, you  _will_  pardon me from my servitude. All of it. Take it  _now_  or let it  _die."_

A sly grin crept onto the captain's face. He was satisfied.

"My heart for your soul." He stuck out a slimy hand. She returned. They shook on it.

" _Done."_

Geneva breathed. It was over. The East India Trading Company would be there in no time. Soon, she would be able to overstep the great Davy Jones. Soon, she would leave this horrible place in flames. She would taste freedom; she would feel the ocean breeze on her skin, let the wind ruffle through her hair. Nothing would stop her. She would stand free, all by herself, all by her own hand. No one would hold her down ever again.

"Not so fast, Miss Dalma," came Jones' voice, but from inside her head.

Geneva froze.

"Angler! Ratlin!" he thundered. His voice traveled through the very wood of the ship, right through her very soul, and her insides went cold.

Jones chuckled down at her. "I'm afraid your aspirations are but the product fruitless hope. The only ocean breeze you'll get to feel will be in the jaws of the  _Dutchman_."

Geneva gasped. Angler and Ratlin came through the door behind her and seized her.

"You need me!" she yelled frantically at him. "You can't save yourself from what you've done! You can't escape from what the Company will do to you! You need me to prove yourself!"

Jones let out a giggle. "No, I don't!"

Geneva was in disbelief. The men pulled her further. She struggled harder. This couldn't be happening. It was all a scam. Every part of it. Suddenly, she erupted in anger. Her eyes flashed in a snarling, golden glower.

"Mark my words, Davy Jones," she hissed, struggling against the hands pulling her backward. "Your life rests squarely upon my shoulders. If I go down, so do you!"

"Chain her to the bowsprit," Jones ordered his men, a horrible grin on his face. His gaze landed on her. "We'll see which one of us can hold our breaths the longest."

* * *

 

Something had just happened. The whole crew could feel a new presence. Maccus paused from sharpening his ax and looked up.

The door to the captain's cabin burst open. Angler and Ratlin emerged, dragging Geneva along with them, but she was raising holy hell about it. She elbowed Ratlin in the stomach, and then she nearly knocked Angler's feet out from under him, and Angler was a decent-sized fellow. They could barely keep hold of her. She was thrashing in every way imaginable, screeching and howling in unbridled, enraged protest.

Suddenly, Maccus knew the truth.

"All hands!" cried the captain, a horrid darkness in his laugh. "Prepare to dive!"

Geneva's screams echoed through the hull, through the very grains. They were tying her to the bowsprit, right inside the teeth of the  _Dutchman_. Maccus whirled around.  _They were going to drown her._

Geneva shrieked and thrashed, but she couldn't get free. The ship waned forward. She cried out at the top of her lungs. But the world wouldn't hear. The water rushed up above her head. It all went black.


	31. Chapter 31

Everything flew upward. Everything. The second she opened her eyes, she hit the ground and she was throwing up water, blood, everything she could imagine. She couldn't hold herself up. The world crashed into her, but she flew back up, away from the ground. She couldn't breathe. She was dangling over the earth, as if she could fall, water flying out of her mouth, tears pouring from her eyes, choked cries escaping her throat.

Suddenly, air punched through to her lungs, and she let out such an awful noise that the earth struck her again. She crashed into the puddle of her own vomit and tried to breathe, but she couldn't. The world was spinning. Everything was screaming. She writhed and struggled, trying to orient herself, trying to stand and run away, trying to figure out where she was, but something was stopping her. The earth spun suddenly in the opposite direction, and her vomit pooled away from her. She slammed into something hard and let out a cry, thrashing, but she couldn't move, and she panicked in choked shrieks. But then, there was warmth, and slowly, carefully, she felt her air coming back to her through the darkness. Something brushed through her scalp, gently, repeatedly, and for some reason, the world began to slow, and she did too. Her breathing calmed, her eyes closed, and lulling, nurtured sleep overtook her, as a faint, whispered sigh of relief danced above her head.

_"Thank God."_


	32. Chapter 32

They were submerged for two full days.

The crew was up and about the whole time. Jones wanted to make sure that she died.

Then, finally, they emerged from the ocean. The wait was over. Jones gave her a glance, decided that she was dead enough for his liking, and dismissed the whole crew for the night.

But Maccus didn't sleep.

He hadn't eaten for the past two days.

He couldn't bear it.

The moment the main deck was deserted, he ran to the stern and cut her down from the bowsprit. He wouldn't believe it. He just wouldn't believe she was dead.

He tried everything. He threw her over his shoulder, over the rail, anything to force the water out. He shook her upside down. He didn't know what to do.

Terrified for his life, he picked her up and fled with her down to the brig. He had to stay out of sight. He was becoming desperate. She couldn't be dead. She just  _couldn't_  be.

Then, right before his eyes, the moment he reached the bottom step he heard water hit the ground. He was so startled that he dropped her, and suddenly she was coughing and hacking, vomiting up water like a whale. He didn't know what to do. He panicked and picked her up, and she vomited everywhere, endlessly, like the whole ocean was funneling through her tiny, little body. It would never end.

But finally, she breathed, and she let out a wretched cry of pain. She slipped out of his grasp and fell down into her own vomit. Maccus threw aside the lantern and picked her up off the floor, and she started thrashing and crying, barely able to breathe, wheezing and panicking. He was completely beside himself. He didn't know what to do. So he did the only thing he could think of. He pulled her right up next to him on the floor of the brig and held her there in his lap, leaned up against the wall, running his awful, grimy hand through her hair, over and over again, hoping to God that she would calm down because he didn't know what else he could do. And finally, after the longest three minutes of his life, her wretched breathing slowed down, she closed her eyes, and she fell asleep, right in his slimy arms. He sat there with her for hours. He couldn't have been more relieved. Tears fell from his eyes; big, soppy, blubbering tears. He couldn't remember the last time he cried. But he sat there and he bawled, like a child. His whole mind flooded with confusion, endless turmoil. She should have never sworn that oath. She should have never made that deal with Jones. The captain had boasted his victory to the whole crew. But poor Maccus, the wretched, heartbroken beast; he couldn't hardly stand up to the news. She  _had_ to survive. She  _had_ to walk free! Jones was a heartless demon, a cold-blooded snake that only wished to torment her poor soul, and then to torment Maccus with that very spectacle!

Maccus wiped his face dry and composed himself. He needed to think. It was nearly morning. He had to hide her away where Jones couldn't find her in time. Only the Company could find her. That was her only hope; his only hope.  _She needed to get away._

He looked to one side. A cell! Yes!

He picked her up like an oaf and carried her into the cell, deciding when he got inside that he would lay her down more nicely than he picked her up. She stirred, but she did not wake, and he let out a quiet sigh. As long as she remained asleep, Jones would never know she was there.

He backed out of the cell and closed the door, locking it behind him. Just as he hung the keyring up on the wall, he heard her groan.

He turned around. There she was; alive, breathing, and coming to. He wasn't sure whether to be overjoyed or overwhelmed. So he only stared at her in shock.

She murmured almost inaudibly. "What happened?" she mumbled, trying to look about, and then her voice got louder as she became more lucid. "Where am I?" Her eyes found him through the bars, and she recoiled in defensive fear.

"What did you do?" she demanded hoarsely. Maccus could hardly speak himself.

"What did I do?" he repeated breathlessly, almost in disbelief. "I saved your life!"

"Why?" she cried, barely able to speak properly. She was becoming overwhelmed. Her breathing was starting to panic. She tried to stand up, but she couldn't. Maccus grabbed the keyring off the wall and opened her cell door, and when she saw him enter, she let out a terrified cry.

"What are you doing?" she yelped, but her voice failed her, and her breathing escalated further. She needed to calm down. He had to get her to relax or she'd strangle herself. He knelt down by her struggling form, and she began thrashing. He reached out, but she recoiled further, and her panic only grew.

He finally stopped himself.

He couldn't calm her. The only reason he managed to before was because she didn't know who was holding her. But now, she knew it was him. Now she could see it was him. Had she known it was him before, she likely would have suffocated herself. She was terrified of him. And she had every right to be.

"Why are you doing this?" she whimpered through the wheezing sobs. What kind of question was that? A damn good question. A question he didn't know how to answer. God, she couldn't even  _look_  at him. It was all hopeless. He was a hopeless fool. He was chasing after something that couldn't happen. He couldn't get her out of there. Not like this. How did he expect any of this to work? What kind of false hope did he have to think that she would trust him? After all he did to her?

The brig fell into silence. This was all his fault. This was what he had brought upon them both. He had allowed Jones to drop this curse upon them. He had been a faithless coward. He had allowed this ship to tear her apart. He had watched it happen to her. He had delivered every blow himself, and the way things were going, he would only do it again, even if he didn't want to. Jones would see to it. All this time, he had been saving his own arse while trying to save hers. But he couldn't. He never saved her by doing that. He only made things worse. He understood now.

And with that, one thing became clear.

He  _couldn't_  save her.

It had always been that way. Jones had orchestrated it to be that way from the beginning. He knew that Maccus would always try to save her. He knew that Maccus loved her. And he could fully rely on the first mate's selfishness to keep her imprisoned there forever.  _Maccus could not free her._  He had set his mind to this impossible goal; he had let it determine his very existence. To forsake his vow would be to abandon her again, something Jones knew Maccus would never do. But Maccus understood now. To truly free her was to let her free herself. To give her salvation was to allow her to seize it for herself. Maccus had always hindered her, even when he never meant to. He was Jones' divisive key to her salvation, the impassable wall, the very gate of her prison cell.

And now, it was time to step out of the way.

"Why?" he breathed with an incredulous tone. The snakes hissed horribly now, drowning out everything, but he pushed on. He could see her there, and that was all he needed.

"I once killed a woman.

She filled me with anger  
And tore up my soul.  
For every lash she delivered,  
I came back tenfold.

"I destroyed her  
Every day.  
But she wouldn't fall!  
God,  
I hated her!  
That wretched cur!  
That scum that dared  
To spit in my face!  
She was barbaric!  
She was unfeeling,  
Abominable,  
A monster.

"But once,  
She let me in.  
And how  
Did  _I_  repay her?  
I tore her apart,  
Shred by shred,  
Where I  _knew_  it would hurt,  
And she named me  
For what I was:  
A monster!  
A demon  
Fit to rot in hell!  
Fit to serve  
The devil!

"And she was right.

"I woke from my delusion,  
And found myself in chains,  
Rotting,  
Down to my bones,  
Wallowing in blood,  
Swallowed up  
By greed and loathing.  
I saw the truth  
Of what I was.  
And for once,  
I hated myself!  
Just as she did!  
And the coward that I was!  
God!  
I killed her!  
I watched her die!  
By my hand,  
I delivered her  
To the palm of the devil  
So  _I_  would suffer no more.

"But God,  
Her face  
When I killed her;  
That face that  
Trusted me?  
That face I adored?  
That face I betrayed?  
Oh, what have I done?

"And now all I can see  
Is her;  
Trapped by my wrongs,  
Slain by my selfishness,  
Maimed by my cowhearted deeds.  
And I—  
The wretched fiend,  
The  _monster!_ —  
Dare to ask  
Forgiveness?"

He looked down at her, the tears pouring down his face. He couldn't bear it anymore.

"Please.  
I have failed you.  
And for that  
I am nothing but dirt.  
But please—  
I beg you—  
Go, and be free."

He stood immediately, locked her cell, and left the brig. The darkness was swarming around him. The snakes hissed everywhere, deafening and enraged. He could hear the cat o' nines drag across the floor, across his back.

But no longer was he afraid. With every step he took up those stairs, he walked further into his own end, and he welcomed it with open arms.  _With his wretched crash came her freedom!_

He made it all the way up  
To the main deck.  
And then,  
Just as he expected,

The devil appeared out of nowhere before him, claw arm clamped down upon his neck, choking off all his air, right in front of the crew. Satan's fiery eyes burned right through his skull. But Maccus had expected it all. He walked into it with reckless abandon.  _This prison wall_ _ **would**_   _be destroyed._

Satan roared and slammed him down by his neck, nearly shattering through the floorboards.

"You will pay for  _every word!"_  he thundered, his voice shaking the whole ship. "Not in sweat! Not in service!  _In blood!"_

The whole world was dumped overflowing with snakes, blackness slithering everywhere. There was no air left. He was dragged across the deck to the mainmast and his wrists were chained to the spar.

"Let this remind you of the cost of your hope, you wretched worm!" the Devil roared, and the whip came crashing down upon his back. He winced and writhed, but the barbed cat o' nines tore and cleaved his flesh clean away. The snakes hurled themselves into him and gorged themselves on him, tearing through his being, down to his core, down into his very soul, and they left nothing behind.

The morning air was noiseless.  
The fog slowly lifted away.  
The deck was silent.  
There were no jeers; no deriding laughter. The crew didn't make a sound.  
Blood was everywhere.  
All over the floorboards,  
Dripping through,  
Into the gun deck below.

Jimmy Legs  
Dropped the drenched whip in utter shock,  
Barely able to speak.

"Is he dead?"

Palifico stepped forward and knelt  
Down to the fallen body.  
The air went still  
In precious wait.  
Palifico lifted his head.

"No."

And so,  
Upon command,  
They unchained his body and dragged it away,

Down,

Down,

Into the darkest depths of the brig.

They left him to bleed,  
Amidst the sea of  
Broken wails and  
Weakened shrieks.  
She grappled with the bars,  
'Til her hands ripped open  
And she screamed at the skies  
'Til her voice faded out,  
But he did not wake.  
And she fell to her knees,  
Collapsed on the floor,  
Deep in the darkness,  
And wept.  
But the men did not take her.  
They disappeared  
Into thin air  
As if they had been filled with sudden fear.  
All fell silent  
Until the echoing drips  
Rang out  
Through the creaking hull.  
The stench of blood  
Filled the air  
And her tears  
Would not cease.

* * *

 

Soldiers were boarding now. The whole world bustled on, oblivious, hardly wishing to spare a caring glance. There she lay, across the floor, outstretched arms, gripping the bars that would not move. Muffled sounds echoed around her. Shadows crossed her vision. Everything went upward, and her feet dragged across the floor. The smell of blood wafted away, and then, she could smell the sea. She opened her eyes and blinding light was all around her. She could not see. Voices became near and audible.

"And take that infernal thing with you! I will  _not_  have it on my ship!"

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that, because I will, because it seems to be the only way to ensure that this ship do as directed by the Company!"

Geneva opened her eyes just barely. Shadows crossed through the light as the sound of boots passed and quickly became distant.

"We need prisoners to interrogate," continued the new voice. "Which tends to work best when they're alive."

"The  _Dutchman_  sails as it's captain commands!" she heard Jones reply bitterly.

"And its captain is to sail it as commanded!" the first voice fired back, and gasps echoed around her. The voice suddenly became dangerously low.

"I would have thought you'd learned that when I ordered you to kill you pet."

Geneva forced her eyes open. This was Lord Cutler Beckett.

The light scorched her eyes, and she winced, hastily reverting back to darkness again.

"This is no longer your world, Jones," Beckett continued, soft, but powerful. "The immaterial has become immaterial."

Geneva felt her body lurch forward. She couldn't see a thing. Heat beat down on her as her legs dragged across the deck.

"Ah," came Beckett's voice, facing her now. "And what might this be?"

"Found her locked in the brig, sir," reported a voice from above her.

"Ah," chuckled Jones, but his voice was nervous and calculating. "This wretched whore."

Beckett paused. "You knew?" he inquired, but it was more of a statement than a question. Jones hesitated.

"A knowing attempt to conceal a prisoner from Company jurisdiction," Beckett continued, easily filling in the lines where Jones failed to speak. He sighed, almost annoyedly. "Not smart, Jones." God, this man was invincible.

"She would be of no use to you!" the captain protested defensively, appalled and angered.

"Mister Mercer," Beckett called, completely ignoring Jones.

"Yes, sir?" came the gravelly reply.

"Take her aboard the  _Endeavor_  immediately. See that she is bathed and properly clothed at once."

"Right away, sir." Geneva felt her feet dragging, the voices becoming distant. But she could still hear.

"You cannot take her!" Jones roared. "She's  _my_  property,  _my_ —!"

" _Your_  property?" Beckett interrupted lowly, and Jones was silenced. "The  _Flying Dutchman_  is not  _your_  property. Anything or anyone in it is  _my_  property and subject to  _my_  interrogation under the contract  _you_  validated." His voice fell to a dangerous murmur. "The next time you choose to harbor fugitives under my nose, I will have  _you_  confiscated instead. Have I made myself perfectly clear?"

She was lifted into a rowboat. And as the boat was lowered, could just barely hear Jones' submissive growl in reply.

"Aye, sir."

* * *

 

_**To be continued...** _


End file.
